The Marquesa's Necklace (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1)

by P. J. MacLayne

  The Marquesa’s Necklace

  P.J. MacLayne

  Dedication

  To my mother, Helen Hinds Guth, who had the strength to let me learn by doing things my way.

  Harmony Duprie enjoyed her well-ordered life in the quiet little town of Oak Grove—until her arrest for drug trafficking. Cleared of all charges, she wants nothing more than to return to the uneventful lifestyle of a historical researcher she once savored.

  But when her beloved old car “George” is stolen and explodes into a ball of flames, it sets off a series of events that throws her plans into turmoil. Toss in a police detective that may or may not be interested in her, an attractive but mysterious stranger on her trail, and an ex-boyfriend doing time, and Harmony’s life freefalls into a downward spiral of chaos.

  Now she has to use her research skills to figure out who is behind the sinister incidents plaguing her, and why. And she better take it seriously, like her life depends upon finding the right answers.

  Because it might.

  Chapter One

  I first noticed him at the other end of the row when I glanced up to find another book. I recognize most of the regular patrons, and he wasn’t one of them. Curiosity kicked in, and I gave him a good looking over as I pretended to scan the table of contents of a random book I plucked off the shelf. Just because I considered myself off the market didn’t mean I couldn’t admire the goods, right? He wasn’t the kind of man you find on the cover of romance novels, but there was something appealing about him. Enough to send a shiver down my spine—or was that the air conditioning kicking in? In any case, the truth was, I preferred a man who didn’t look like he spent more time in front of a mirror than me.

  The library was as quiet as a church sanctuary on a Tuesday morning—just the way I like it. As an ex-librarian, I appreciate the times when only a few patrons are perusing the shelves or racks of periodicals. Back then it gave me time to replace books or straighten out the magazines. Now that I’m a researcher for a writers’ co-op, these times are when I’m most productive. None of my old coworkers object when I accumulate a large pile of books on the table I stake out as my territory for the day. They know I’ll replace them in the proper places before I leave. I don’t necessarily need all these books, but they create a wall I can hide behind.

  I don’t need to hide any more, at least not while Jake is doing time for assaulting an officer and resisting arrest, but old habits can be hard to break. Like wearing these coke-bottle glasses when I have a perfectly fine pair of contacts sitting in their case on my nightstand, or wearing my hair up in a bun. I can’t count the number of times friends have tried to get me to change my hairstyle, insisting men would be more interested in me if I wore it down, but I’m not trying to attract a man. After Jake, I swore off dating.

  This particular day I was deep in the stacks trying to find out what John D. Rockefeller might have served at one of his dinner parties. One of the ladies decided to set her next romance in the 1920’s instead of making it a Regency. Accurate information about the regency period of England was standard fare but this was a challenge. I might even have to resort to the microfiche collection and spend hours scanning the gossip columns of the newspapers from that period. Not my favorite thing to do, but whatever. It all paid the same.

  It was difficult to judge because I was sitting on the floor, but I guessed him to be taller than me. His wavy sand-brown hair was the perfect length to run my fingers through, although I had no expectation of that ever happening. His clothes—white shirt, brown slacks and brown blazer with elbow patches—reminded me of a college professor out of a movie from the 1970’s. As he turned and I could see his eyes, the cell phone is my jeans pocket vibrated. By the time I looked back up from the screen, he’d disappeared.

  Curiosity nearly got the better of me and I thought about asking Janine at the front desk about him, but decided against it. If word got out I’d asked about a man, the rumor mill would start churning, and I’d never hear the end of it. My plans included a quiet evening with leftover chicken casserole, a glass of white wine, and a new mystery novel I bought last weekend. I didn’t want it interrupted with a dozen calls from my nearest and dearest friends.

  I spent a few days peering into the microfiche machine to chase down a Rockefeller’s banquet menu. That’s why my contract with the co-op specifies I get paid a salary. Naturally, the lady in question changed her mind about the scene the same day I presented my findings to her, and had a different project for me. She wanted to find out about the colleges in the Bronx back then. I didn’t tell her, but I had spotted a book with the information she needed during my earlier research. Off to the library I went, laptop in tow, along with a portable hand-scanner. Though it was expensive, it’s saved me the cost of copies for several years now.

  That’s when I ran into him the second time. I was doing my normal thing of walking through the 940’s with my nose in a book and I almost bumped into him. A sudden rush of cold air made me stop in my tracks and look up into a pair of eyes such a light blue they were almost gray.

  “Oops, sorry about that.” I reached out to stop myself from falling, but he backed away. I managed to latch onto a shelf instead, so I didn’t end up with my face on the floor. My book did fall, and he bent over and picked it up. Without so much as a smile, he handed it to me and walked away without a word. Annoyed, I stood there with my mouth open and watched him turn the corner and vanish from my view. As I returned to my book I smelled the most unusual thing. I don’t know if it was his aftershave or what, but it made me think of freshly-turned dirt.

  I stopped to talk to Janine on my way out. I wondered what she could tell me about him. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. She just looked at me, shook her head and rolled her eyes while I nervously fiddled with my necklace.

  “Haven’t caught sight of him,” she said. “You sure you aren’t imagining things? It’s time for you to start dating again. We’ll talk about it more tonight.” Great. Exactly what I figured.

  Wednesday night was girls’ night out at our hang-out of choice, the Pink Flamingo. The Flamingo is about a quarter restaurant, three-fourths bar, and has been our favorite spot since high school. The plastic birds it took its name from have faded to an almost white color from exposure to the sunshine through the front windows, but the owner has never replaced them. Not much has changed in ten years, except we no longer sit up front in the restaurant section with its beige upholstery and bright lighting. We’ve graduated to the middle section where most of the seating is barstools or wooden chairs at small tables, and only a few booths line one wall and lighting is kept to a minimum. The back is reserved for pool players and their buddies.

  Mid-week, the Flamingo didn’t attract much of a crowd. A few regulars play pool, but we could gossip without constant interruptions from guys looking to pick us up. Of course, Merrilee was always their first target. Her long blond hair and supermodel body made her a guy magnet for the newbies. Too bad she plays for the other team. That leaves me, Janine and Sarah, all brunettes, to pick up after her when we are so inclined.

  The three of us looked enough alike that people sometimes mistook us for sisters. We all had long hair, but I was the tallest with Janine and Sarah about two inches shorter than me. Our eyes were brown, but Sarah listed hers as hazel on her driver’s license. Janine tends to be a little paler than the rest of us but that’s because she spent more time with her nose buried in a book than even me.

  But this night, no one bothered us. I think Sarah was disappointed. She dumped her last boyfriend a few weeks earlier and was in the
market for a new flame. All dressed up and wearing a pair of bright red stilettos, she eyed every man that walked in, but didn’t spot anyone of interest. However, right on cue, once we had our drinks but before the food arrived, Janine brought up my mystery man.

  “We’ve got to fix Harmony up pretty soon,” she giggled. “She’s imagining guys now.”

  I took a big swig of my brown ale before answering. I blame my liking for it on Jake. He introduced me to the variety of beers, and pale ales bore me now. “You must have been in the bathroom when he came in or something, because he was there. Twice.”

  “Well, if he hangs out in history, maybe he’s your competition,” Merrilee chimed in.

  I snorted, and almost knocked over my mug. Only a quick catch kept it from toppling over and spilling its contents into my lap. “If he wants to give it a try, he’s welcome to it. He’s probably gathering information for a college paper. Or he’s a first-time author doing research for himself.” Even as I said it, I decided the idea made a lot of sense. After having worked with the writers group, I know how focused they get when they’re on a writing streak. My mystery man probably wouldn’t even remember seeing me. I tipped my chair back, took another drink of my beer and dismissed the issue. Thank heavens, the girls got distracted by a hot guy who picked that moment to swagger into the bar.

  Chapter Two

  The rabid barking of Luke’s dog and a pounding on the door startled me out of the nap I didn’t mean to take. Grumbling, I set the laptop down on the floor, stretched and walked over to peer out the peephole. The man in blue with his fist raised to strike my door didn’t look familiar and I thought I knew most of the local police after last year’s incident. I pulled out my earbuds, nearly dropping the MP3 player, and opened the door before he hit it again. “Can I help you, Officer?”

  “Harmony Duprie?” he asked, stopping his fist just before it made contact with my chest.

  Yeah, that’s my name. Obviously, my parents didn’t hang around many strip clubs before they came up with the moniker. I took a step backwards. “Yes?” I asked, wondering what I had done wrong now.

  “I’m Officer Felton. Do you own a,” he checked a slip of paper in his hand, “a 1979 blue Ford Pinto?”

  “George? Why yes I do, he’s parked out on the street.” The car was around the corner and I couldn’t see him, but I parked him the same place every time. The local police knew my car, so why was the officer asking about him?

  “Did you loan your car to anyone, Ms. Duprie?”

  “No.” I felt a tickle of worry at the base of my skull. “Why?”

  He sighed. “I have bad news. It appears your car was stolen.”

  I pushed past him, leaned over the railing and tried to see my parking spot. “Did you find him?”

  “Him?”

  “George. My car. I call him George.” Because like the Abominable Snowman in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, that’s what I always wanted. My own little car.

  “Your car has been totaled, Ms. Duprie.”

  Stomach churning, I leaned against the door frame with a casualness I didn’t feel. “What happened?” Not that it would take much damage to total George, as old as he was.

  His radio beeped and his eyes took on intense stare of someone listening intently to a voice I couldn’t hear. He leaned down and spoke into the black box on his shoulder. “10-4. We’re on our way.”

  He looked at me. “Detective Thomason would like to speak to you at the office.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh. Detective Fred Thomason and I are not the best of friends. I have tried to avoid him, with little luck, since the first time he handcuffed me. “I seem to be minus a car,” I pointed out dryly.

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Can I change first?” I didn’t want to show up at the station in the holey old sweats and worn out T-shirt I had switched into sometime mid-morning.

  “Can you make it quick?”

  “Of course,” Then, against my better judgment, I added, “Why don’t you come in? This will only take a minute, but you might as well sit down while you are waiting.”

  I wasn’t worried about inviting him in. It isn’t much of a place, but what I choose to afford, and the landlords keeps it in good repair. It’s the entire third floor of a three story home, and Luke and Joe have the bottom two floors. They are getting older so I help them out with basic maintenance and they keep the rent low. Much of my furniture is yard sale leftovers, but I claim the apartment is decorated in shabby chic. I prefer to spend my money on books as witnessed by the two walls worth of packed shelves. There are more books stacked on the floor of the bedroom and even several in the bathroom. The little kitchen is kept book-free except for a few cookbooks since the time I got so involved in the novel I was reading I burned a pot of spaghetti.

  He seemed to be uncomfortable with the invitation. Damn it, someone must have told him about my history with the law. I decided to blow it off. “Your choice, I’ll be right back.”

  For a morale booster, I dressed in my best fitting jeans, tailored blouse, and my red pumps with a four inch heel. When I came back into the front room, he was looking at the screen of my laptop. I hid my grin—it was open to a scholarly treatise on the role of women in Edwardian England. Boring stuff. My browser history was full of similar sites, as Detective Thomason had discovered the previous year.

  I grabbed my purse and, out of habit, my car keys off their hook. I hesitated, and tossed them into my purse. “Ready, Officer?” I asked in my sweetest voice. I didn’t wait for his answer, but brushed by him and waited on the landing. Once he started down the stairs, I locked my front door and carefully followed him. The stairs were narrow, and walking down them in those heels was not an easy task.

  The short trip to the station was made in silence. I had a million questions I wanted to ask, but figured I would have to wait to get my answers. Who would steal George? He wasn’t worth much. Teenagers wouldn’t be caught dead in him. And why wreck him? Shit. I hoped no one got hurt, even if they did steal my car.

  Officer Felton left me in the barely-furnished lobby. It was a place you don’t want to stay in too long—several hard plastic chairs, a beat-up fake wood end table and a few old magazines scattered about. It smelled like stale cigarettes, and appeared not to have been cleaned for weeks. I perched on the edge of a chair and put my hands between my knees to keep from touching anything. Thankfully, it was only moments until Detective Thomason appeared. I gave him the once over—brown hair still cut short—check. Glasses hiding those dark brown eyes—check. His shirt rumpled and in need of an iron—check. No wedding band in his finger—check. Yep, nothing had changed.

  As I stood, his eyes wandered from my face down to my shoes. The corners of his lips curled upward, but I wouldn’t say that he smiled. A smile would have looked odd on his normally grim face.

  “If you would come with me, please?” he said.

  He even put the please in there, unlike our previous encounters. Of course, those times, I had been either in booking or in one of the interrogation chambers. I know, I know, they’re interview rooms. Whatever. I followed him through a maze of desks and hallways and into a small but comfortable office, my heels clicking on the tile floor. I’d never noticed before what a nice behind he had. I wondered if it was just the pants he was wearing, or if I’d just not looked before, having other things on my mind. Like calling a lawyer.

  “Have a seat, please,” he said, indicating an armless office chair—at least its seat was padded. He sat on the other side of a desk covered with an assortment of files and paperwork, and picked up a file from the top of the stack.

  “Harmony,” he said tentatively.

  “Detective Thomason,” He might be trying to be friendly, but I still hadn’t forgiven him for arresting me.

  He cleared his throat, and set the file back on his desk. “Did you let anyone borrow your car today?” he asked.

  “No, my keys are right here.” I started digging through the
contents of my purse.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, after I pulled out my checkbook, a packet of pink tissues, and a paperback with an almost-naked man on the front cover and piled them on the corner of his desk. His mouth twitched. “Have you made any new enemies recently, Miss Duprie?” I guess he got my message about the terms of our relationship.

  “Besides a certain insufferable cop?” Even in the artificial fluorescent light, I saw the red rising in his cheeks. I could almost hear him counting to ten as I pretended to consider the question. “I think Larry, the florist, is ticked off that I’m not receiving flowers anymore. And Bart at the grocery store yelled at me last week when I went through the ten items or less line with fourteen items. But what does that have to do with someone stealing and wrecking my car?”

  He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled. “Bear with me a moment. Did you go anywhere today?”

  I couldn’t figure out where this line of questioning was going, but I answered anyway. “No, I woke up with a killer headache, realized it was going to rain, and decided to stay home and work.”

  “And when was the last time you saw your car?”

  “This morning. I planned to go to the library, but it started to storm as I was leaving. Why?”

  He swiveled his chair so he was facing away from me. I fidgeted in my suddenly uncomfortable seat and waited. He turned back around and leaned forward with his forearms on his desk. “Your headache may have saved your life. We’ve asked for help from the state police to verify our theory, but our preliminary investigation and accounts from a few eyewitnesses indicate your car exploded.” Sitting back and rubbing his forehead, he added. “A tall man in a brown suit was seen in the vicinity.”