The Mystery Sisters series Box Set

by Karen Musser Nortman

  They clinked glasses.

  “You promised you would fill in the holes for us,” Max reminded him.

  Melody held up a hand. “Let me get the kids settled.” She found a box on a sideboard with puzzles and games. The four children dove into the box, already bickering over who got what, and lost all interest in the adult conversation.

  “Okay,” Josh said. “As you guessed, Wendell’s ‘inheritance’ was his half of the take from the bank robbery. He had a good opportunity to plan the robbery during those times he cleaned the bank at night.”

  Max asked, “How did Wendell and Bernie know each other?”

  “Wendell said he met Bernie at a fast food joint where he worked at over in Baseburg—about fifteen miles from here. They visited whenever Wendell ate there. When Bernie found out about Wendell’s job, he started joking about a bank heist. Eventually the joke got serious.”

  Camille nodded. “Wendell saw an opportunity to change his life, when the Hilltop went up for sale—if he just had a down payment.”

  “Exactly,” Josh agreed. “Wendell was the person in the nun’s habit, and Bernie Godwink drove the getaway car. Afterwards, they split the money, and Bernie offered to dispose of the nun’s habit. That was the last Wendell saw of him.”

  “So Bernie’s print got on the cross when he hid the habit,” Max said.

  “And he hid his half of the money in a lock box in the very bank they had robbed?” Lil asked.

  “He did.” Josh smiled. “Under the name, Rudolf Stutman. Crazy isn’t it? He could use the ID information for a dead man because the rules for lockboxes aren’t terribly stringent. The individual doesn’t get any income from them, so the Feds aren’t much interested.”

  “How did you get into the box?” Max asked.

  “We were able to get a court order to open the box—the key was on that ring in the tool shed. It contained exactly half of the take from the robbery. So we surmise that shortly after the robbery, Bernie rented the lockbox. No one here knew him so he could use whatever name he wanted, as long as he had fake ID. Then he hid the key and the habit at the old Kell house.”

  Terry chuckled. “He obviously didn’t bank on getting arrested for something else before he got back there.”

  “Bank on. Good one.” Josh grinned. “I’m sure he planned to return fairly soon, in case the house was sold. Getting arrested for a convenience store holdup from a couple of years earlier was not part of his plan. He never got out of jail on bail, was convicted, and, as you know, died in prison.”

  “So what got Wendell interested in the Kell house?” Terry asked.

  Max set down her wine glass. “I think you did.” She smiled. “Didn’t you mention the nun’s habit when you were explaining the history of the house to the tour group?”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. But Wendell wasn’t there.”

  “No, but Mary Carmody said the habit was discussed at breakfast the next morning at the Inn. Wendell must have overheard.”

  Josh nodded. “He did. He admitted that in his confession. He knew Godwink had died in prison and thought if the habit was there, maybe the rest of the money was too.”

  Terry threw in, “But we complicated things. With the haunted house thing going on, it would be difficult to search for it.”

  “Yes,” Mansell said. “And remember the plan was to burn it after Halloween. So when he overheard Barbara making plans to meet Art Carnel there—sorry, Camille—he saw it as an opportunity to get into the house and search. He thought there would be some way of sneaking in and avoiding them.”

  “So Art had nothing to do with any of it?” Max asked.

  “According to Art, he arrived at the house and unlocked it, but left because he got a call from a potential client. Wendell’s story jives with that—he got there, the house was unlocked, and no one was there.”

  Melody shook her head. “I feel so sorry for Barbara.”

  “She had terrible luck,” Mansell said. “Wendell had started searching outside when Barbara showed up. She asked him what he was doing—an innocent question for someone not guilty. Wendell said he panicked—he knew she could identify him from the Inn—and strangled her. Then he got the idea to stage her in place of the manikin. He knew that would cause the house to close early and he hoped he would have more time to search. And that’s the story.”

  “Amazing,” Camille said. “Half of the stolen money was in the bank the whole time. And the missing manikin was in the dining room the whole time.” She shook her head. “Well, I’ve learned something too. I’m done with Art. And I am so glad I never invested with him. This makes the break much cleaner.”

  “Good,” Mansell said. “Art isn’t off the hook. He’s got a lot of explaining to do about what he did with Barbara’s money, and while we’re at it, we’ll check out his other clients, too.”

  “What about the haunted house?” Max asked. “There’s still over a week until Halloween. It’s a shame to lose out after all of your work.”

  Camille clapped her hands with delight. “I almost forgot! I got a call from Fred Polk right before I left to come out here. He has an old empty house on the south edge of town that we can use.”

  Terry nodded. “Some people who would resent reopening the Kell house as being disrespectful to the woman who died. And it is.”

  Camille turned to him. “What do you think, Terry? Could we move everything this weekend and be ready to reopen Sunday night?”

  Terry nodded. “If we get a small but efficient crew, I don’t see why not. We wouldn’t have to build anything—just move it all and hook it back up.”

  Lil said, “I won’t be much help.

  Max grinned. “You can say that again.”

  Lil wrinkled her nose at her sister. “I’ll do what we can, and then we’ll be taking off on Sunday. As the saying goes, I think that’s where we came in.”

  “We haven’t figured out how you’re going to get in that car yet,” Terry said. “You have to share with Rosie.”

  “Maybe I’ll just drive.” Lil smiled.

  <<<<>>>>

  Double Dutch Death

  by Karen Musser Nortman

  Copyright © 2019 by Karen Musser Nortman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  As Maxine Berra drove along the main thoroughfare of Little Sneek, Iowa, she admired how the hood of her 1950 red Studebaker complimented the red tulips in beds lining the roadway. It was time for the spring Tulip Fest, and besides the brilliant shades of red, the beds also sported yellow, pink, orange, and purple blooms—multicolored crowns perched on straight stems.

  Max’s sister, Lillian Garrett, gazed out the passenger window at the kaleidoscope of color. “Breathtaking, isn’t it? But I still can’t believe that anyone would name a town ‘Little Sneek.’” She chuckled.

  Max sighed. “I told you, it’s because there’s a city named Sneek in the Netherlands.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t mean you’d have to use the name again. And the college—how much credibility would you have with a degree from Little Sneek College?”

  “Well, a degree in botany from Little Sneek would be better than one in law enforcement.” Max snorted at her own joke. “Are you watching the GPS to tell me when to turn?”

  “Oh, right.” Lil glanced down at her phone. “It looks like about two blocks to Water Street. You’ll turn left and Bess’s house should be three blocks down on the right.”

  “Okay, pay attention. We can sight-see later.”

  Lil grimaced but didn’t say anything. She had ov
er seventy years’ experience putting up with her older sister’s bossiness.

  Water Street was a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Large overhanging trees shaded both sides of the street. Large manicured lawns with immaculate landscaping fronted half-timbered Tudor homes, Craftsman bungalows, Victorian painted ladies, and Prairie style houses.

  Bess and Dean Gregory’s house was, appropriately, a Dutch colonial with a blue roof and shutters. Red and white tulips bordered the evergreen shrubs and mock orange bushes bloomed along the front.

  Bess was Max and Lil’s cousin. They had grown up together in the southern Minnesota town of Castleroll. Max and Lil liked to travel the country but tried as much as possible to stay with relatives and friends to save money. Not that it was a necessity; Max enjoyed a comfortable pension from her years as a botany professor in Colorado, and Lil’s husband had left her an adequate inheritance. However, there didn’t seem to be any reason not to take advantage of good opportunities. And Bess was a favorite cousin of theirs.

  Bess and Dean were raking one of the flower beds when Max pulled in the driveway. Bess, a short barrel-chested woman with slender legs, dropped her rake and whooped a greeting. Her silver bobbed hair lifted around her face in the slight breeze.

  Max leaned forward to shut off the car. She started at a sudden burst of warm, moist air on her neck, accompanied by a pathetic whine. “Rosie! Back! Back!” She ducked out of the trajectory of the Irish setter’s hot breath.

  Lil opened her door and beckoned the dog. During long trips, Rosie curled up in the back seat, content to snooze. But once they stopped, she stood rocking back and forth as she tried to get a stable footing and prepared to make a dash for the first opened door. Her exits weren’t pretty, and woe to anyone who stood in her way. Lil knew that from experience and stepped to one side to avoid the red-haired missile.

  Bess rushed to greet them and hold Max’s door for her. Max lumbered out, joints stiffened by the long drive. Once she had stretched, she felt a little more herself.

  Bess gave her a hug. Dean picked up Bess’s rake and leaned it with his own against the house before he ambled over. He held out a hand to Max. They had only met a few times at family events because over the years, families and careers made if difficult for the cousins to get together often. Dean was tall—Jeff to Bess’s Mutt— with thinning strawberry blond hair brushed across his shiny scalp. A ready smile tempered his ruddy complexion.

  “Welcome! We’re so glad you’re here for the Tulip Fest. Lots going on this weekend.” He pointed at the trunk of the car. “Can I help with luggage?”

  Max nodded. “Sure. I hope you don’t mind the dog. She’s pretty low key once she gets used to new surroundings.” She thought she saw Bess grimace, but Dean waved off her apology as he pulled a suitcase from the trunk.

  “We’ve had dogs—well, it’s been awhile—but don’t worry about it. I’ll enjoy her company.” He leaned down and scratched Rosie behind the ears. She looked at him with adoration.

  Bess grabbed one of the bags and led the way into the house, chatting about the Tulip Fest. “There’s a lighted parade tonight after dark that’s just wonderful. Tomorrow will be dancing demonstrations and street cleaning…Dean plans to give you a personal guided tour of the windmill. He’s one of the volunteer docents.” Inside, she led them up an open stairway and to a door on the right. “Max, I’m going to put you in here. The Blue Room—“ she giggled. “I guess that’s obvious.”

  Crisp Blue Delft patterned wallpaper provided a backdrop for a whitewashed dresser and bed, which was decked with a blue and white quilt. Cobalt blue vases of yellow tulips stood on the dresser and night stand. Copies of paintings by the Dutch masters hung in simple frames—one of course being The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Blue roman shades covered the double windows topped by handmade lace valances.

  “It’s lovely.” Max smiled at Bess. A mass of fur slammed into her behind her knees, causing them to almost buckle. One of Rosie’s worst habits.

  “Rosie!” The dog barged past Max and headed for a big blue-checked pillow on the floor at the end of the bed. She stepped into the dog bed, circled twice, flopped down and sighed, looking back at them all with great innocence.

  “I thought she might enjoy her own bed. I-uh-kept it after we lost our Bluebell seven years ago, and it has come in handy.”

  “Thank you,” Max said. Bess was obviously a little embarrassed that she still had the dog bed after all this time, but Max was glad that she did.

  Yellow and white striped flounces and black-and-white gingham accents festooned Lil’s room. While the decor was not to Max’s taste, she recognized it as fresh and charming and reflecting Bess’s personality.

  Dean and Bess left them to unpack. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.” Bess started down the stairs.

  Dinner included a Greek pasta salad, fresh rolls, and, of course, Dutch apple pie. Conversation centered around catching up on the family news and Max and Lil’s recent travels. As they sat around the table afterwards finishing their coffee, Bess reminisced about some of the overnights they spent at their Grandma Jacobsen’s.

  “I doubt if our parents would have even let us stay over if they knew some of the antics we got up to,” Lil said.

  “Remember the time—I think we were about eight or nine—when we talked her into letting us sleep in the attic?” Max asked.

  “Oh, do I! I think it was soon after Grandpa died and our folks thought we would be good company for Grandma,” Bess said.

  Max said drily, “Little did they know.”

  “It wasn’t a finished attic,” Bess told Dean. “Just a plain old-house attic.”

  “There were a couple of hammocks suspended from the beams, and that’s where we slept,” Lil said.

  Max snorted. “In the middle of the night, we were supposed to be asleep and a bat swooped down over us.”

  The memories tumbled out faster. “Grandma thought we were being attacked by Genghis Khan and the Mongols,” Lil added.

  “So who caught the bat?” Dean asked.

  Bess shrugged. “Nobody. We made it down the steps and Grandma shut the door and that was that. It probably died up there of old age.”

  A scratching sound drew their attention to the French doors.

  “Oh, you have a cat?” Lil asked.

  “No,” Bess said. “Several feral cats live in the neighborhood. We’ve had Animal Control pick them up but they seem to reappear. That one is the saddest looking of the bunch.”

  The cat, a gray mongrel, half-heartedly groomed itself and then ambled away. “He almost looks like Bill the Cat from the old Bloom County comic strip,” Max said.

  Dean studied the retreating animal. “You’re right. I hadn’t made that connection. A lady down the street feeds them; that’s why they keep showing up.”

  “Apparently that one is the last in the dinner line,” Max said. “You should take him in, Bess.”

  Bess grimaced. “I hate cats.”

  After a pause, Lil asked, “Where did you say that you work as a docent, Dean?”

  “At the windmill. It’s pretty amazing. It was designed and built in Holland; then taken apart and shipped here where our workmen reconstructed it. It’s the largest working windmill in the US. We actually grind grain there.”

  Max licked the last crumbs of pie off her fork. “How did you happen to get involved?”

  “Well, you know I was an accountant until I retired. A friend on the museum board asked if I would help with the foundation’s books, so I was around when the plans for the mill were being formulated. It just fascinated me. Sometimes old technology is more amazing than new technology. By the time they got the thing up and running, I knew all about it and you know—nothing’s more fun than to talk about something you love.” Dean laughed. He pushed his chair back and began to stack the plates.

  Lil got up. “Sit still. I’ll take care of this. That was a great meal.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,�
�� Bess said. “You’re our guests—”

  Dean reached over and put his hand over hers. “Dear, remember the rule. Just say thank you.”

  She smiled and leaned back in her chair. “Thank you.”

  Max joined her sister, embarrassed that she had not been the one to suggest helping. Score one point for Lil.

  They had decided that they would only take in the lighted parade and forego any other activities that evening, since Max and Lil had had a long drive. Dean drove them first through the Little Sneek College campus. Nineteenth century buildings sat widely spaced between huge trees. Vintage-looking street lights cast circles of light illuminating brick paths and beds of flowers in the descending darkness.

  Max leaned forward from the back seat. “I don’t know much about this school. How many students do they have?”

  “I think around 1,500,” Bess said.

  “That’s about the size of SBC, where I taught.” Max nodded and then asked “Why on earth did they keep that name or even choose it in the first place?”

  Bess laughed. “They talked about changing it a few years back, but the consensus was that people don’t forget this name.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Lil said.

  “Is the college pretty well endowed?” Max wanted to know. “That can be a big problem for some small schools.”

  Dean nodded. “They get a lot of help from local industry. But there are always campaigns going on.” He paused to chuckle. “One of the guys on our street is a fundraiser for them. He’s always hinting that we need to make a donation. I graduated from here, but, as you know, Bess was a Golden Gopher. She would rather donate our vast estate to the U of M. We haven’t agreed yet on what to do.”

  “I say whoever lives the longest gets to decide.” Bess laughed and pointed out some flower beds. “We’ll come back in the day time to see the tulip beds here; they are unmatched, even in this town.”

  “I’m impressed that the town gets into this event so much. Every house seems to have tulip beds,” Max said.