Amy King Cozy Mysteries- The Complete Series

by N. C. Lewis

  "I'm no expert," Nick said, "but Megan has a split personality brought on by the untimely death of her sister Hillary. It was her Hillary persona that had a crush on Danny. It turns out the fantasy was broken by meeting him in the flesh. Hence, Hillary instructed Megan to cross out his face."

  Danielle frowned. "Weird! I'd have taken the posters down and tossed them."

  "Me too!" added Amy. "Maybe Megan or Hillary would have gotten around to it."

  "Maybe," Danielle replied reflectively. "Anyway, I'm pleased Megan is getting the psychiatric help she needs."

  "Yep," Nick replied, "and thanks to a citywide program, she doesn't have to worry about the cost. That was one of the reasons Megan visited with Dr. Walden in the first place. Now she has access to certified medical staff."

  A silence settled over the kitchen, and they remained in quiet reflection for several minutes: each thinking about Dr. Walden, Danny Fontane, and the curious murder they had all played a part in solving.

  "Next week, Victoria and Zack are due in from London," Nick said, breaking the silence. He was looking forward to seeing his eldest daughter and her husband. They regularly spoke on the phone, but it had been over a year since he had last seen Victoria.

  "I've got a list as long as my arm of things to get ready for those two. I'll get to it tomorrow," Amy said, getting to her feet. "Come on, Danielle, we've got a few furniture suppliers to visit with today."

  "Oh," said Nick, slipping into his jacket. "I thought your appointment book was bare!"

  "Not quite. We have a staging next week. Miles Block is the event organizer and—"

  "Gonna be a big one," Danielle interrupted. "Politicians, artists, the social elite of Austin will be at this event."

  "Where?" Nick asked.

  "The Bullock Texas State History Museum," Amy replied.

  Noel leaned back in his chair, sides shaking with laughter.

  "Hey, what's up?" Amy asked, staring hard at her son-in-law.

  "It's just that"—he took a gulp of coffee, grinned, and blew a kiss at Ruby"—I've been offered a job working in the museum."

  "A job!" Ruby cried in astonishment.

  Noel shrugged. "Nothing much, just a docent—a guide. I start Monday."

  Ruby jumped to her feet and again rushed over to Noel. They hugged. "I'll make enchiladas for dinner to celebrate!" she said with a wide smile.

  "Oh," Noel replied, his voice dropping an octave. "Ruby, I don't like enchiladas."

  Ruby peered into his eyes and smiled. "Me neither. Tell you what, I'll cook battered cod and chips with mushy peas to remind us of London."

  "You'll cook?" said Amy in astonishment.

  "Mom, I was hoping you might like to make it for us," Ruby said sheepishly.

  Everyone laughed.

  Murder in the Bullock

  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.

  Chapter 1

  Floyd Adams stood by the open patio door of his home office, cell phone in hand, peering through thick spectacles at the rain as it crashed down onto the deck. The house was large and elegant, with a view over the slow-moving river that snaked to the west of Austin. Floyd and Diana had lived there for ten of the twelve years they'd been married, and for most of those year's their two children, Johnny and Fay, ages nine and six, respectively, had lived there with them.

  For a moment, Floyd closed his eyes thinking about Diana. She was always livening things up: singing in the morning, laughing through the evening, and when he first met her, they would dance all night. He hadn't done that in a long time, didn’t think he could now that middle age had him firmly in its grip.

  Floyd opened his eyes and thought about his children and smiled. He could already see that they would be tall and athletic. Neither Johnny nor Fay had his dark hair nor podgy frame. "They have their own unique characteristics," Diana had said. "I love you Floyd, but wouldn’t want my kids to grow up looking like you. You are unique, one of a kind." He had often wondered about that, but couldn’t make up his mind what his wife had meant.

  Where were they now? They had the week off school, and were probably playing in their bedrooms, barely aware of the heavy rain and flashes of lightning: Johnny carrying out bizarre experiments with his science kit, and Fay organizing her American Girl dolls. At least they weren't bothering him, interrupting his work.

  On Wednesdays, the museum allowed him to work from home. It was one perk of being a curator at the Bullock Texas State History Museum. This Wednesday, despite the rain, he'd rather be in the office. He peered anxiously at his cell phone, hoping to see a text message that the Edwina Lutz figurines depicting the Battle of San Jacinto had arrived and were ready for his inspection.

  Floyd's heart quickened at the thought of getting his hands on the tiny replicas of one of Texas' most celebrated battles. He'd spent several years gently pushing and cajoling the museum authorities to commission the pieces. Had he not been one of the country's leading authorities on Texas figurine art, he doubted the museum would have parted with the three hundred thousand dollars demanded by the artist, Edwina Lutz.

  Secretly, he would have pushed the museum to pay half a million if that's what the artist had asked for. Edwina Lutz's paintings were highly representational, with perfect proportions and filled with Texans with expressive faces. Under the gentle flicker of candlelight they seemed almost real. He knew her figurines would be even more lifelike.

  Floyd felt pleased for negotiating a bargain and couldn't wait to hold the delicately crafted figurines in his own hands. They would go on public display in the museum and eventually on tour across the state, but given the tight scheduling at the museum that wouldn't be for another eighteen months. Until then, he would have the figurines all to himself. He smiled inwardly at the thought, glancing anxiously again at his cell phone.

  A boom of thunder shuddered through the house. The lights dimmed momentarily. Rain pelted through the open door. Floyd hurriedly shut it, spots of water speckling his neatly pressed white shirt.

  "Dammit!" he grumbled, wiping his glasses. "Now I'll have to put on another shirt." Even when he worked from home he liked to wear a button-down shirt and slacks. And if it wasn't for Diana he'd be wearing his dinner jacket and bow tie too.

  Floyd paced over to the large executive desk that stood in the corner of the room, sat down, then stood up again glancing down at the piles of folders and papers that lay higgledy-piggledy across the desk. He couldn't concentrate on paperwork, not until he knew the figurines were safely in the possession of the museum. Once again, he stared into his cell phone—nothing.

  The office door opened six inches. "Honey, is it okay to come in?" Diana stuck her head around the door.

  "I was just taking a break," Floyd said with a smile.

  "Perfect, I've made us both a coffee." She strolled into the room carrying two steaming mugs on a silver tray, created a small space on the cluttered desk, and put them down.

  Floyd studied her trim figure and grinned. She was tall but very thin, fragile looking, in her early thirties with slight crow's feet at the corners of her chestnut eyes. He walked over to take her up in his arms. "Come here, gorgeous."

  "You've got work to do, remember?" Diana said in feigned annoyance, her full lips turning downward in a pout.

  "There's always work to do. It's about time I had a little fun."

  Diana laughed
and ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. "Do you remember when we first met? We would dance all night." She paused, patted his growing stomach. "Now, I'd be fearful you might have a heart attack… and die! Then what would I do?"

  "At least you'll have my life insurance."

  "Money, "she said in a mock disgusted voice. "Who needs it!"

  "You do, sweetie. If anything happens to me, you'll be taken care of financially."

  Diana nestled in closer, turned her head so he couldn't see her face. Money made her feel secure. If anything happened to Floyd, she'd be okay. Then, hoping he wouldn’t notice she'd changed the subject said, "I wish your hours weren't so long… that we had more time together. Even when you work from home you're stuck in this office most of the time."

  Before Floyd could answer, his cell phone buzzed. Eagerly, he peered at the screen. "They've arrived!"

  "The Battle of San Jacinto figurines?" Diana asked slipping out of his grasp.

  Floyd didn't answer. Instead, he picked up his mug and took a long gulp. But the satisfied gleam in his eyes told his wife all she needed to know. "Floyd, you're not going to the office this afternoon, are you?" Diana's voice had an edge to it. "Not in this weather."

  Floyd took another gulp from his cup. In the abrupt silence that followed, the rain seemed to beat against the patio door with added fury. "I've got to, just to check, just to see… I won't stay late, I promise."

  Diana folded her arms, let out a sigh and scowled in disappointment. "I'm making dinner tonight. I've invited the neighbors, with their kids, to join us."

  "The Randalls?"

  "Yes, and the Allyns with little Jennifer and their new baby, Christy."

  "Make sure you're back in time for that."

  "Will do, knew you'd understand," he said, kissing his wife on the cheek. "I'll be back for dinner; you can count on that."

  "Promise?"

  Floyd adjusted his spectacles. "Promise."

  Chapter 2

  The air was thick with the scent of pine and cedar and freshly mowed grass as Floyd hurried to his car along the well-maintained blacktop driveway edged by a manicured lawn. He didn't like the thunder with its bone-jarring, earsplitting crashes. He didn't like the rain either. It disfigured his clothes and messed with his neatly combed hair, exposing his bald spot.

  He winced as a flash of lightning followed by a roll of thunder triggered another torrential downpour. A strong wind whipped open his dinner jacket. For a moment, Floyd looked like a giant bat: his thick lenses amplifying his eager eyes to the size of golf balls. He struggled to regain control of his jacket. Then, hugging his elbows close to his side, secured the buttons.

  Floyd clambered into his car and placed a hand in his inside pocket. The candles were dry, so were the box of matches. He had to keep them that way if he hoped to see the lifelike expressions on the faces of the figurines. He slipped the car into drive and pulled out of the driveway onto the main road that led to downtown Austin.

  The traffic was lighter this time in the afternoon as he drove by many of the iconic landmarks that defined the capital city of Texas. On this day, though, the landmarks went unnoticed. Floyd could think of only two things: getting to the office quickly, and staying within the city speed limits.

  His watch read three fifty as he turned into the museum parking lot. The security guard, whose name he could never remember, waved him into the covered area reserved for staff.

  Floyd hurried through the entrance designated for museum workers and took the elevator to the fifth floor, stepping out into a narrow, dimly lit corridor lined by offices. This was where the museum staff spent their days. Most of the doors led to a warren of tiny cubicles. These were occupied by administrative staff, security personnel, and museum guides.

  Floyd turned a corner. He had an office to himself, at the back of the building, with a small window that overlooked the roof. Beyond that, if he held his head at a certain angle, he could see the capitol building.

  With a quick swipe of his security key, the door to his office clicked open. Floyd felt wired as he hurried inside. At last, he would get his hands on the figurines and have the type of fun only a collector of historical artifacts or a museum curator could understand.

  His enthusiasm was only slightly dampened by the promise made to his wife that he be home for dinner. Filled with a sense of anticipation and desire he wondered what the figures looked like in the artificial light of his office, and then under the natural light of a candle.

  He'd barely hung his coat on the hook on the back of the door when he saw the large brown box on his office desk. An excited thrill ran down his spine as he placed a hand on the top of the box and squinted through thick spectacles at the address label.

  "It's the figurines!" His face was that of a child's examining the biggest present on Christmas Day. He sat down at the desk, head dizzy with delight.

  This is it, he told himself, taking little sips of air. Floyd had earned his PhD at the College of Fine Arts at the University of Texas. He'd studied for thousands of hours to become an acknowledged expert in the field. And now, at last, a chance to examine a figurine collection that hadn’t fallen into the hands of a greedy collector or slimy dealer.

  "It's playtime," he said aloud, flipping on the desk fan then tearing at the box. "Dinner with the family can wait!"

  Then the door to his tiny office swung open with a loud creak. Floyd whirled around in his chair. Something quickened in his chest. He got a flash of sunken eyes and a knowing grin. Then he shrieked for help, the veins of his neck standing out like cords.

  A single shot drowned out his cry.

  Floyd Adams was dead before his body slumped across his desk.

  Chapter 3

  A few days earlier…

  It was seven thirty in the morning when Nick King blew on the surface of his coffee for the third time. "Got a meeting with Lieutenant Kostopoulos today."

  "Really?" said his wife, Amy, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "I guess you're ready to go back to full-time detective work."

  "More than. The clinician said I had to take it easy after my heart attack and operation but heading up the lollipop liaison unit is more stressful than solving serious crimes."

  Amy knew Nick was exaggerating, but she humored him. "How so?"

  Again Nick blew on the surface of his coffee then looked up into the eyes of the woman he loved. "It's the administration… and the bureaucracy," he said in a tense voice. "I'm not a desk-job type of police officer."

  Amy picked up on the tautness in her husband's voice. She stood up and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "Detective," she corrected giving him a little peck on the cheek. "You're a detective."

  "Doesn't feel like it sometimes," Nick admitted, staring at his coffee. "Especially when my days are filled visiting school principals and parent-teacher associations."

  Amy understood Nick was deeply unhappy with the situation at work. He had considered early retirement and rejected it. She knew he lived for the job and had wanted to work in law enforcement ever since he was a boy. "Think about the kids," she said, remembering how he had told her his interest in policing was triggered by a county constable who regularly visited his school, "and their improved safety. The roads around some of our Austin schools are death traps. I'm pleased the authorities are doing something about it at long last."

  Nick nodded. "It's good police work, just not my kind of police work."

  Amy took a sip from her mug and tried to think of something encouraging to cheer up her husband. They'd been married for twenty-two years and for most of those years, Nick had been happy in the Austin Police Department. But since his heart attack and reassignment to the lollipop liaison unit, he'd not been himself.

  She too had problems that weighed on her mind. Her new staging business, Studio Shoal Seven, had hit the doldrums with a succession of client cancelations, leaving her appointment book almost bare. To cheer herself up she had pulled out old Zig Ziglar motivational CDs an
d listened in between household chores and daily activities. "You can have everything in life if you help enough other people get what they want. Nick, what do you want?" she asked, paraphrasing the legendary motivational speaker.

  Nick didn't hesitate. "To get back to leading the executive protection unit."

  "I thought Detective Mary Wilson was heading the unit now?"

  Years ago Nick had encouraged Mary Wilson to join the Austin Police Department. He'd taken her under his wing and encouraged her as she rose through the ranks of the male-dominated and chauvinistic department. With his support, she applied to become a detective. Nick's recommendation got her in. Mary was a great detective and a good friend.

  "If they promoted Mary to the head of the executive protection unit she would have my full support."

  Amy took another sip from her mug. She knew Nick meant what he said. He always did. That was one thing she liked about him, one of many things.

  Nick continued. "Since my hospitalization, the unit has been furloughed."

  "Furloughed?" Amy said with alarm. "You never told me they furloughed the unit."

  "Well, not officially," Nick replied, backtracking. He didn't want to frighten Amy. "But they have assigned Detective Wilson and the rest of the team to other duties."

  "Why?"

  Again Nick blew on his coffee. It was cool enough to drink, but blowing on it was impulsive, eased his nerves. "City hall politics, I guess… a lack of resources. I'm going to tell the lieutenant I'm ready to get back to my old job; see what he has to say."

  Amy leaned forward, kissed her husband on the cheek. "Honey, you’re a great detective. Whatever the lieutenant says won't change that."

  Nick felt a wave of relief. He could always count on the support of his wife. "Any more of those kisses up for grabs?" He drew her close.

  Amy wriggled. "Detective King, haven't you got a job to go to?"

  He let her slip from his arms. "What are your plans for the day?"

  Amy picked up her daily planner. "Victoria and Zach arrive tonight. We're meeting them at the airport." Victoria, their eldest daughter, lived in London with her husband, Zach. The visit had been initially arranged after Nick's heart attack. Then, when he had made a speedy recovery, Victoria delayed the visit so Zach could come with her.