by N. C. Lewis
"So, the original order was only for five clowns?" asked Danielle, eyes wide.
Nick nodded. "Doris, the secretary claims she didn't adjust the invoice. It is company policy to initial any changes."
"That means someone else made the change," interjected Ruby.
"Superb. I might make a detective out of you yet, Ruby." Nick raised his finger to the ceiling like an English teacher about to make a critical point. "That someone was Amelia Dubois. She hasn't admitted it yet, but when I looked at the actual invoice, the original digit 'five' was crossed out and replaced with the numeral 'six.' It will be down to the handwriting experts to determine whether it is Amelia's hand, but I'm betting it is."
"Amelia was the sixth clown?" asked Ruby.
Nick took a sip from his cup. "Yep and being a master bagpipe player, she blended in with the other players. No one suspected a thing."
"Devious woman," cried Ruby, hugging Noel. "Wicked, devious, and cold-blooded."
"That's how she got me," Noel said sheepishly. "Mentioned there was a matter of urgency she wanted to speak with me about."
"So, she lured you to her hotel suite?" asked Amy.
"I'm afraid so." He lowered his head in shame.
Ruby kissed him on the cheek and pulled his arm into her. "We all make mistakes. That woman really was the wicked witch of London Bridge."
There was a general murmur of agreement.
Ruby looked at her father. "What I don't understand is how you and Officer Chambers ended up at Cherry Towers Hotel."
Nick tapped the side of his nose. "Austin Police Department secret. I can't explain."
"I don't believe you," Ruby argued.
Nick grinned. "It was all logical, really. Noel wasn't at the Five Star Motel; he wasn't at the office, so I guessed he might be at the Cherry Towers Hotel. If he wasn't, I knew Amy was. In the lobby of the hotel, I had them dial Amelia's room number. No one answered, but the receptionist, Georgina Lovesey, saw your mom and Danielle enter the executive suites area, so Bob Chambers and I went to the room. The rest, as they say, is history."
Amy stood up and went to the kitchen sink. "I wonder what will happen to Mrs. Battles?" she said reflectively.
"That's a mess, right now. " Nick answered. Noel, you might be better able to explain regarding the business side of things. Is there anything left for Mrs. Battles?"
Noel raked a hand through his hair. "The Security and Exchange Commission raided the offices a few days ago and closed down the firm. It looks as if Barry Battles was running a Ponzi scheme. It's a type of scam, and he'd been running it for years. There are not enough assets to pay all the investors back. After the bills are settled, there won't be anything left over for his wife."
"The money is gone?" Danielle said in astonishment.
Nick nodded slowly. "The liquidators will sell the assets of the business, including the homestead on Route 360. But I doubt if that would be enough to cover all the liabilities. Everyone in the organization is looking for a new job, including me."
That made Nick think about his new position in the lollipop liaison unit. It wasn't what he wanted, but at least it was a job, gave him something meaningful to do, and for that he was grateful.
Nick looked from Amy to Danielle, to Ruby and Noel, and smiled.
"Let's go sit on the deck, watch the sunrise, enjoy more coffee, and chat about days gone by, and our plans for the future."
"That's a splendid idea," Amy said, giving her husband a big hug.
Murder Through the Window
Copyright © 2018 by N.C. Lewis
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Prologue
Danny Fontane stood by the patio door in the office of his Westlake mansion. A slender, angular man pushing fifty, his crisp-gray hair was cut close around small ears with large, brown eyes which won the hearts of his female fans. His distinctive staccato voice and larger-than-life character portrayal won over the movie and theater critics.
It was almost dark, and only the last of the twilight filtered through the curtainless windows. There had been a violent storm that evening, but it did not deter the guests from attending his Austin relaunch party. He peered out into the yard watching as familiar people, illuminated by rustic lampposts, climbed out of expensive cars and walked toward the front door to be greeted by his hired waitstaff.
Danny flung open the patio doors. A gust of warm evening air, smelling of damp, freshly mown grass, fluttered papers on his oak desk. The chatter of eager voices carried from the driveway, and he thought he recognized one or two even over the noise of the arriving vehicles.
For several moments Danny paced, rehearsing the opening lines to his most acclaimed role, Mr. Forrest in the movie Alistair's Blanket. The lines would come in useful when he gave the welcome speech. He closed the patio doors and was about to sit at the desk when the office door opened six inches, and Miles Block, the event organizer, stuck his face through the gap. "The guests are gathered in the lobby. Are you ready to make your entrance?"
"I need a drink," he replied, not answering the question directly.
"Already taken care of, a member of the wait team will be here momentarily."
Danny waved Miles into the office. "Come, close the door."
Miles hurried inside, closing the door quietly behind. He was a tall, balding man with a fringe of brown hair colored from a bottle rather than nature. He wore a neat dark blue suit with narrow lapels that covered a white shirt and conservative plum tie. "I trust all is going as you desire?" he inquired in a deferential tone.
"I'll tell you once I've had a little drink or two."
"It'll be here in a moment, sir."
Danny turned toward the patio doors, his face darkened. "Do you know who I am, Miles?"
Miles hesitated. "You are Danny Fontane."
"The Danny Fontane," corrected Danny.
"Yes, sir."
"The one and only Danny Fontane. Now, when I enter the lobby, I want everyone on their feet clapping and cheering, even the waitstaff. Is that clear?"
"Already taken care of, sir."
"And the drum roll?"
"Done."
There was a knock on the door.
"Enter," Danny commanded.
A short, dark woman of indeterminate age, wearing a maid's uniform, shuffled into the office. "I have drink for you, sir." She carried a silver tray with a bottle of Glenmorangie Signet whiskey and a single tumbler.
"Funny accent; where are you from?" Danny asked, eyes gleaming at the bottle.
"Guatemala, sir," she replied in halting English.
"Never heard of it; guess it's near Mexico, right?" He didn’t wait for a reply, reached out for the bottle filling the tumbler. "Where's the ice?"
"Sorry, sir. I bring now."
"Stupid woman. I ought to—"
"There is no need for that, sir," interrupted Miles. "I'll personally see to it."
Danny's eyes flashed with something sinister. "Miles, remind me how much I am paying you to organize this event?"
Miles's face crimsoned, and his erect shoulders drooped a little. "Rather a lot, sir."
Danny grinned. "Thank you, Miles. Now," he said, turning to the woman. "What is your name?"
"Maybelline Riera, sir."
"Well, Maybelline," Danny said dryly, settling back into his chair and swiveling it toward the patio door. "You're fired! Miles, please escort Señ
ora Riera from my property, and bring my ice. Now, both of you, get out!"
Before the office door clicked shut, Danny gulped down the iceless whiskey then poured another. He stared at the pile of unopened envelopes on his desk—bills. Then tore open an envelope from the Lone Star Savings and Prosperity Bank.
Dear Mr. Fontane,
We are writing to inform you that you have exceeded your line of credit.
Danny grunted, took another sip and opened another envelope, this time from Capital Bank of Texas.
Dear Mr. Fontane,
Your application for an extension to your bank loan has been rejected.
Frustrated, he yanked open a drawer, pulled out a butter knife, plastic straw, silver plate, and a small packet. Slowly he tipped the contents of the packet onto the plate. Then he chopped the cocaine into slender lines and snorted hard through the straw. White powder rimmed his nostrils as he stared blankly at the patio doors.
It will be fine. Everything will turn out fine. It always does for Danny Fontane.
Then a sharp squeak caused him to sit up straight. There was someone at the patio window. Danny watched transfixed as the handle slowly turned and the door slid open. A figure stepped through the doorway.
"You!" Danny barked. "What now?"
The figure moved toward the desk. Behind the sunken face and empty staring eyes Danny could sense hatred, and suddenly he was afraid. Before he could cry for help, the figure sprung forward, arm raised high, hand clasped tight around a baseball bat.
The first blow of the cold, hard wood sent searing, sharp pain reverberating throughout Danny's body. He was unconscious before the second blow crushed his skull.
Chapter 1
A week earlier…
When Amy King sat down at the restaurant table the words were already running through her head. She couldn't think of the movie they came from or the actor who had said them and found herself mentally going through the names of famous actors and recent films she had seen. Nothing seemed to fit, and that just made her frustration worse. I'm almost fifty and forgetting things, what will I be like at sixty?
She was waiting for Danielle Sanchez, her friend and the only employee of her staging business, Studio Shoal Seven. Although Danielle was part-time, she carried the load of a full-time worker, and for this Amy was grateful.
Amy picked up the menu, peered at the offerings, already knowing today she'd order soup and salad. The soup was always outstanding at Hansel's House, the Austin eatery where anything might happen. She fished in her handbag for reading glasses, glancing up through the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a perfect view of the courtyard. It was bathed in the shade of a large canopy and filled with blooming lantanas and greenery.
Again, she found herself mumbling the words low under her breath like a monk reciting a Gregorian chant. She tried to focus on something else, but the words came back. Eventually, she put on her reading glasses and stared at the menu wondering whether to break her diet and try something other than soup and salad. She'd been on a diet for three days. It felt like a month.
But she couldn't concentrate. Random fragments of the words tumbled around in her mind. Like a jingle of a television commercial, the lyrics would be with her all day, maybe even all week.
"Hello, my name is Megan Finney. I'll be your server this afternoon." The waitress's voice was deep and husky as if she had spent years hanging around smoky, late-night bars. She was heavyset, in her late fifties, with a jovial face, and wore a blue Hansel's House apron over a canary-yellow dress too tight on top and too loose everywhere else. She grinned. "What can I get started for you?"
Amy had the instant sensation there was something rather odd about the woman. It wasn't the woman's dress sense that made Amy uneasy. This was Austin where weird was normal, and Hansel's House where normal was weird, but as she sat there waiting for a response, the strange sensation wouldn't pass. "I'm waiting for a friend. She will be here in a moment," Amy said, at last.
Megan hummed, a low, almost inaudible, tune, and her eyes strayed through the window. "Lovely outside, isn't it?" she said, musing to herself more than Amy. And she hummed again. There was something familiar about the tune, Amy had heard it before. But she could not call it to mind.
"Would you like a complimentary drink while you are waiting?" asked Megan. "Well, it's not supposed to be complimentary, but it's my big sister's birthday. Her name is Hillary, and since I've got to work today, I may as well make someone's day."
"That's so kind, say happy birthday to Hillary for me," Amy replied regarding Megan with curiosity as the strange sensation settled into an uneasy feeling low in her gut. "Water is good, ice cold."
Before Amy could identify the source of the uneasy feeling there was a sudden ringing of handbells. Three people dressed as oversized Siamese cats tumbled into the restaurant. A wizened, old man dressed as a cowboy with his hat tipped forward covering his eyes followed close behind. In one hand he held a large plastic bucket and in the other a handbell. "Hey ho, the animals know the shelter's run on money," sang the tuneless voice of the cowboy.
He surveyed the crowded tables and rang the handbell again, and with a toothy grin added, "Hey ho, it's time to pay to keep our city streets sweet."
"Money time!" Megan shouted. "Oh, this is my big sister's favorite time!"
The waitstaff cheered.
Someone turned on the speaker system. The upbeat tempo of ABBA'S "Money, Money, Money," boomed through the restaurant. Then, as the fat cats danced, the stooped cowboy swaggered from table to table shaking the bucket. Patrons tossed in coins and notes, laughing and chattering excitedly about the unexpected interruption.
"It's like being at the center of a Hollywood movie set," exclaimed Megan, her round, jovial face suddenly filled with excitement. "Hansel's House is just one big theater."
The cowboy swaggered to Amy's table. She fished around in her purse, pulled out twenty dollars and tossed it into the bucket. "Thank you, ma'am." He made a little bow and raised his hat.
"Alfred! Alfred Thomas," exclaimed Amy. "It's you, isn't it?"
Alfred Thomas, a retired detective, had helped her husband, Nick, rise through the ranks of the Austin Police Department. Although several years retired, he worked as an orderly at St. Mary's Hospital, and now it seemed, he also raised funds for the local animal shelter.
"Amy, I'm supposed to be in disguise. Tell no one," Alfred said, giving a huge wink and raising a finger to his lips. "Say hello to your hubby, Nick, and remind him we are going for drinks Saturday night."
Amy leaned back in her chair, her eyes glittering, a broad smile on her lips. "I'll tell him." She reached into her purse, pulled out another fifty dollars and tossed it into the bucket. "I hope you raise a million."
Alfred waved, and swaggered to the next table.
"When ya'll are ready to make your order wave me over," Megan said, turning and walking toward the kitchen. "Think they should have had a cowgirl shaking the bucket. I could do it, and I'd dance too. My sister Hillary would love me to do that!"
Chapter 2
It struck Amy, as she sat there waiting, that the waitress, Megan, had watched her too closely as she spoke. Her eyes, she thought, were smoky and had a vacant look. The uneasy feeling deep in her gut returned. It rumbled like a freight train. She shivered. "I don't know, maybe I'm wrong about that woman. Different strokes, for different folks," she added aloud.
Still, the words spoken by an unremembered actor in a forgotten movie danced around her mind. "Maybe it's not from a movie," she said to herself at last. Amy put the menu down and looked around the restaurant trying to concentrate on something else. Yet, the words which had been with her since she woke up, continued to tumble around in her mind. "Let me Google it."
She tapped the words into her cell phone and waited. Moments later a list of search results appeared. "Damn," she muttered. "Lots of references to Shakespeare but nothing about recent movies or the actor who spoke the lines."
"Amy
girl! Sorry I'm a little late," came the shout of a familiar voice. Danielle hurried over to the table and sat down. She wore blue jeans and a bright pink T-shirt with an image of the lead guitarist of the Tarry Town Revival Band on the front. "Man, it's busy in here today. Did I miss anything?"
"Only dancing Siamese cats and Alfred Thomas."
Danielle's eyes grew wide. "Dancing cats I understand, but what was Detective Thomas doing here?"
"Dancing with the cats, what else?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope." Amy explained the earlier events.
"I would have paid to see that," Danielle said glancing around the restaurant with eager eyes. "I hope they come back! " She toyed with the menu but didn't open it. " Know what you want?"
"Soup of the day and house salad," Amy answered.
"I'll join you in that. I'm on a soup and salad diet. Day two!" She smiled a mysterious smile.
"What's the smile about? " Amy said, reading her friend with the precision of a Geiger counter. "Come on, spill the beans."
"Well, it's just that—"
Before Danielle could finish, Megan returned to the table. "It's wonderful that you've joined us here at Hansel's House for lunch today," she said in her husky voice. "Are you local or just visiting for the book festival?"
"Austin born and raised," answered Danielle.
"I've eaten here for years. Started way back in the day when Conrad Abensberg was alive," added Amy.
Megan placed her hands on her hips. "You don't say! That was Chef Hansel's uncle, wasn't it?"
"Yes," responded Amy. "And I think he would be proud of what his nephew has done with this restaurant."
Megan stepped closer to the table. "I have only worked here for a few weeks, but I love this place. And so does my sister." She swept her arms in a grand arc and dropped her voice an octave. "It pays the bills and supports my other line of work."
Curiosity got the better of Amy. "Really, what do you do?"
Megan didn't answer immediately but stood there regarding them with calculating uncertainty. Finally, she said. "The stage. Acting."