Amy King Cozy Mysteries- The Complete Series

by N. C. Lewis

  Floyd was grinning, eyes twinkling. "Desperate, eh? Call the number, tell them Floyd Adams sent you." He waved his arm in a large arc, leaned forward, hands on the counter, then lowered his voice. "Charles, anything is better than this." He was laughing so hard now he had to take his spectacles off and wipe tears from his eyes with a napkin.

  Charles trembled with fury. He clenched his fists, his nostrils flared, and his pupils had shrunken to the size of pinheads. He was about to say something he knew he would later regret when an idea struck him. Quickly, he tore a fragment from a takeout paper bag, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote. "Here," he said, looking up at Floyd, "this is for you. My details, just in case you want to stay in touch."

  Floyd took the scrap of paper without looking at it, folded it in half and placed it into his jacket pocket. "I eat here once or twice a month. Be seeing you around, Charlie boy."

  Charles hated being called Charlie boy, and Floyd knew that. He cursed. Floyd looked back over his shoulder, his lips curving upward into a self-satisfied smile as he waved. A moment later, Floyd Adams was gone.

  Charles cursed again.

  The manager, a short, barrel-chested man with an even shorter temper, had given Charles hell after that. "Listen! I don't pay you to stand around swearing at the customers. This is a business!"

  Charles had seen The Wizard of Oz hundreds of times. It was one of his favorite movies, but with the constant rustling of candy wrappers and the almost continual wail of children, he'd barely been able to concentrate on the cowardly lion's confident strut. His acting coach, Josh Mallard, had said, "That cowardly strut at the end of the movie is the key. Master it, and you've got any audition licked… we'll work on it every week… might take years, though."

  Charles hadn't had a successful audition in months. He needed to master that strut and booked Josh's thirty-minute coaching session for the next six weeks using his burger money to make the deposit.

  Now, Charles tried to concentrate on the final scenes of the movie. He noted the erect posture of the lion, the confident sway of his tail, the upright tilt of the head, and the lion's eyes—somehow enlarged and shining brightly.

  Charles got to his feet before the end credits and hurried toward the exit to beat the crowd of grandparents and yapping toddlers. Outside, he blinked, stretched, and breathed the humid city air deep into his lungs. Yes, he thought to himself as he walked to the bus stop, I can master the cowardly lion strut.

  Lightning flashed across the sky as he waited. A rumble of thunder gave a forewarning of more to come. Pedestrians scurried along the sidewalk as midmorning traffic edged along Congress Avenue. Charles fished in his pocket for change, pulled out a handful of quarters and a small, white business card.

  For a moment he stared blankly at the card, then his eyes flashed angrily as he remembered the smug, conceited expression on Floyd Adams' face. Yes, he wanted more acting work, but he'd rather run barefoot across hot coals than take anything from snotty-nosed Floyd Adams.

  Fuming, he glanced up at the sky, then peered down the street, as if by sheer will he could make his bus appear. It didn’t.

  The sky darkened.

  It began to rain.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a Moonies Burger Bar cap. They weren't supposed to leave the shack, but he took one anyway. The flimsy material offered little protection against the tumbling pellets of rain. The wind picked up, driving a slanted spray of water across his body like a cold shower. Drenched and dripping he cursed as his bus rumbled to a hesitant stop, splashing dirty curbside water across his trousers. He cursed again. There wasn't time to go home and change into fresh clothes.

  Charles, damp and miserable, climbed out of the bus at the intersection of Lamar Avenue and Barton Springs Road. An arthritic limp hindered his progress. Rain tumbled in huge globs from the dark sky. At Singh's Discount Pharmacy and Beauty Store, he rested under the protective shelter of the red-and-white awning. Moonies was just across the street, but he needed to catch his breath.

  Some people, he thought bitterly while he waited, could eat at Moonies every day, while others had to trudge through the rain to work there. As he stood seething, a smiling, self-satisfied image of Floyd Adams popped into his mind. Charles despised that man with his perfect wife and children, despised his large house overlooking the river, and most of all he despised Floyd Adams' success.

  As Charles took shallow breaths and shook off the excess rainwater, the store door flew open. A plump woman carrying a small plastic bag with her collar turned up hurried onto the sidewalk. Charles watched as she walked, almost running, along the street. When he turned around, he glimpsed himself in the plate-glass window—bedraggled and stooped with a tired, worn-out look.

  A chink of sun filtered through the clouds. The rain eased. Charles trudged along the soaked sidewalk toward Moonies. When he got closer, he saw a long line of people clustered around the burger shack. "It's too early for customers," he muttered.

  Then he realized. The people weren't eager customers waiting to consume beef patties with fries. They all wore yellow pants and were, like him, hoping for a shot at casual employment. He stared at the line, counted fifty. Moonies only needed fifteen.

  Charles exhaled, let out a bitter breath, pulled a dirty, white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and wiped his face. The image of a sneering Floyd Adams popped back into his mind. Irate, Charles turned on his heels and limped back toward the bus stop.

  "Man, I ought to teach Floyd Adams a lesson," he muttered nastily under his breath as it began to rain again. "One that will destroy him and everything he owns."

  Chapter 7

  You couldn't miss Jeffery Stubbs if you wanted to. He was six foot five, had a head the size of a basketball, a mop of spiky, gray hair above dark-brown, ferret-like eyes, and a permanent frown creased into his sixty-three-year-old forehead. He was the chief neurosurgeon at the University Medical Center, and renowned for his fiery temper.

  It had been a busy day. Jeffery had supervised younger surgeons in surgery, presented at the monthly University Medical Center board meeting, and attended a luncheon for platinum patrons of the Bullock Texas State History Museum where he was elected to the board of governors.

  He strolled into the elegant dining room of his penthouse apartment, poured a whiskey, added ice, took a sip then walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Pushing the curtains aside he gazed out at the incredible Texas sun hanging low over the city. There was still a splattering of rain somewhere as a huge rainbow arched over downtown. The thunder and lightning had moved on to the east.

  Today, he thought to himself with satisfaction, has been a good day. As the newest member of the museum board, he was determined to make an immediate impact.

  "Visit whenever you want," the chair of the board had told him, handing over an electronic access key. "Gives you entry to the administrative wing of the museum. Random visits from board members keeps 'em on their toes."

  Jeffery planned to make a surprise visit soon. His first task, though, would be to rally the troops against Floyd Adams. He disliked the direction Floyd had pushed the board, disliked that even as a platinum patron he had little say in the running of the museum, and most of all he disliked Floyd. He'd see to it that Floyd Adams was dismissed from his position.

  Jeffery's cell phone rang. He squinted at the screen. "Hello, beautiful," he said, knowing it was his new girlfriend, Georgina Lovesey.

  "Oh, Jeffery, it's so good to hear your voice."

  "You sound tired."

  "I'm whacked," Georgina replied. "A busy day at the hotel. The executive suites are fully booked."

  Jeffery's heart quickened as he remembered the first time he saw Georgina working the reception desk at the Cherry Towers Hotel. He knew then he had to have her, and it didn't matter she was over thirty years his junior. Jeffery Stubbs always got what he wanted.

  "Then it would do you good to come over here and get some relaxation," Jeffery said in a gentle
voice. "A little wine, soft music…"

  "Would love to, but wouldn't be good company tonight; I'm exhausted." She knew it was a feeble excuse, but sometimes she wanted to spend the evening with a younger man.

  Jeffery persisted. "We can snuggle up on the sofa, watch the sunset over the city and have a bite to eat."

  "I'm too tired…"

  A blue vein pulsated in Jeffery's temple. "I'll order in Indian, from the Clay Pit, your favorite."

  "Honey, that sounds delightful… but I'm not up to it tonight… need a little rest… sleep to recharge. Tomorrow is going to be another busy day."

  Jeffery squeezed his left hand into a tight fist. "Georgina, I've already said you will have a pleasant evening, stop jacking around and get your butt over here by seven p.m."

  Georgina didn't want to risk upsetting Jeffery any further. She liked the gifts too much, and the security that came with his money. The evening she had planned with her other boyfriend would have to wait. "Okay… okay, I'll see you at seven, honey."

  As Jeffery hung up, footsteps caused him to whirl around. A short, dark woman of indeterminate age, wearing a maid's uniform and a duster in her left hand, stared back.

  "Who the devil are you?" Jeffery demanded.

  "I come clean apartment, your new cleaner," the woman replied with a heavy Hispanic accent.

  Jeffery had forgotten he had fired his cleaner yesterday. This woman would be his seventh in six months. "Damn cleaning agency keeps sending over inferior workers. I want the apartment spotless; do you hear me?"

  "Sí señor, I clean nice, good worker."

  His eyes narrowed. "Don't call me señor. To you, I'm Dr. Stubbs. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Sí, Dr. Stubbs, sir."

  Jeffery's ferret-like eyes flashed with satisfaction. "Now woman, what is your name?"

  "Maybelline, Maybelline Riera. The agency sent me to—"

  "Shut up!" he interrupted rudely. "Damn fool agency sent you at the wrong time, didn't they?"

  "I no know, sir," she blurted out apprehensively.

  "Don't argue with me," he said flatly. "They sent you over at the wrong time! This entire apartment must be clean and tidy two hours before I get home. I've explained that to the agency, and now I'm explaining it to you." He jabbed a finger in her face. "This place must be finished by three p.m."

  "Sí, Dr. Stubbs, sir," she replied, stepping backward. Maybelline didn't like Dr. Stubbs, but she didn’t want any trouble. Born in a village, about sixty miles south of Guatemala City, Maybelline came to the United States hidden between sacks of flour—one of a multitude of undocumented workers living in the city. The agency had told her it was an easy job, and they paid her cash, no documentation required.

  "I can't stand running into menial staff when I come home in the evening," Jeffery continued as if speaking to himself. "I want to relax in opulence, not stare into the face of poverty."

  Maybelline didn't catch the last sentence; her English wasn't up to it. But she nodded. "Sí, Dr. Stubbs, sir."

  "Now," Jeffery said, sipping from his glass, "I'll inspect what you've done then you can be on your way."

  He followed her to the master bedroom and was satisfied with her work. Then to the bathroom, again he was satisfied. Along the main corridor that led to the front entrance, Maybelline paused for a moment in front of a large oak door, extended her hand, twisted the handle, and pushed.

  The door swung open before Jeffery Stubbs had time to object.

  The room, as large as a regular bedroom, was elegant with thick carpeting, lush floral wallpaper edged at the bottom with oak wainscoting. A huge crystal chandelier hung majestically from the ceiling, turned down low, filling the room with twinkling starlight.

  Even to the casual observer, there was something rather odd about the space. The scent was the first thing that struck. It hit the nostrils hard even before the eyes adjusted to the twinkling light. A heavy musty odor filled the air like a long-boarded-up house. Then, as the eyes adjusted, you saw them. About a dozen carefully crafted tables, each about the size of a coffee table, on top of which stood, as if frozen in time, tiny, action-orientated figurines.

  On each table a candelabra filled with unlighted candles stood next to a typed, white card held neatly in a gold-leafed frame—Battle of Gonzales, Battle of Goliad, Battle of Concepción, Battle of Lipantitlán, Grass Fight, Siege of Bexar, Battle of San Patricio, Battle of Agua Dulce, Battle of the Alamo, Battle of Refugio, Battle of Coleto.

  In the far right corner of the room stood a table with a candelabra and a gold-leafed framed, white card—Battle of San Jacinto. But unlike the other tables there were no figurines.

  "I clean this room real good," Maybelline added with a satisfied nod.

  Jeffery squeezed his left hand into a tight fist. "This door is to remain locked at all times," he began in an even voice. "You're not to go into that room. I made that perfectly clear to the agency."

  Maybelline's eyes opened very wide." Sorry, sir, I no know."

  Once again, a blue vein pulsated in his temple. "That room contains my private collection of priceless figurines. No one goes into that room without my permission."

  "So sorry, señor, not happen again."

  Jeffery Stubbs exploded. "Get out! Get your filthy, flea-bitten butt out of my apartment and don't come back. You're fired!"

  Jeffery watched impassively as the little woman scurried from his apartment. She reminded him of a larger version of one of his figurines. The thought caused his body to stiffen in rage. Then he thought about Floyd Adams and boiled over with fury. Floyd Adams' commissioning of the figurines depicting the Battle of San Jacinto was a step too far, an interference in the free market. And it mattered not to Jeffery that the pieces had been sold at a huge discount to benefit the people of Texas. That the Bullock Texas State History Museum had bought them, meant that he couldn't.

  Jeffery's lip curled into an angry snarl. "I simply have to have those Edwina Lutz figurines to complete my collection. Once Floyd Adams is permanently out of the way, the rest will be easy."

  Chapter 8

  Amy paced the little café on the upper level of Austin Bergstrom Airport, stopping at the balcony that overlooked the arriving passengers and glancing eagerly at the departures and arrivals board.

  "Come and sit down, Amy," Nick said with an impatient huff. "Victoria and Zach's plane hasn't landed yet, and when it does it'll be at least thirty minutes before they clear customs."

  Amy peered down at the crowds swirling around the arrivals lobby. Several of the baggage carousels turned slowly as groups of travelers stared at the multitude of almost identical luggage.

  Excited at the prospect of seeing her daughter, Amy didn’t want to sit down. But there was little else to do but sit and wait. "Wonder how they are really doing?" she said, pulling up a seat.

  Nick folded his arms. "We'll soon find out. Victoria seemed thrilled the last time we spoke. She'll give you an update soon enough."

  Amy noticed a slight coolness in her husband's voice. "What's up? Is it Zach?" she asked cautiously. "I know you said you liked him but—"

  "Not Zach," Nick interrupted. He always marveled at how his wife could pick up his mood even when he tried to disguise it. "Yes," he said, unfolding his arms, "I had a few misgivings about Zach at first. The man seems to run from one harebrained scheme to another, but I've grown to like him. From what I can see, he is a great husband to Victoria."

  Amy agreed. "Zach's a little headstrong. Once he gets an idea, he goes for it."

  "Not like me. I like to consider the possibilities, play with the alternatives. When Zach accepted that job in London on a whim, without discussing it with Victoria, I was upset. But I'm over that now."

  "Me too," added Amy, pleased that Zach and Nick's relationship had improved. Nick had worked hard on connecting with his son-in-law, and the two men got along well together.

  "So, what's wrong with you this evening?" Amy reached for the cup Nick had brought for her e
arlier, but she'd been too excited to drink.

  Nick was still annoyed about his meeting with Lieutenant Kostopoulos. That he had upset his administrative officer, Barbara Edwards, didn’t help matters. But he didn't want to spoil Victoria's arrival with his work problems. "Oh, it's nothing."

  That wasn’t the whole truth and Amy knew it. "Is it something I've done?" she asked fishing.

  "Of course not, honey."

  "Then, what is it?"

  Nick took a sip from his cup. "Just work."

  Since Nick had joined the lollipop liaison unit, he'd rarely talked about work. When he was solving murders, it was always on his mind. He was happier with the murders, Amy thought with a slight shudder as she glanced down at her cup. "Guess Officer Chambers has been slouching off again?" Another guess.

  "What's else?"

  Amy picked up her cup, put it to her lips while her mind raced over the morning's events. Then she remembered Nick's meeting with the lieutenant.

  "How did it go with Lieutenant Kostopoulos?" she asked, already knowing by the expression in Nick's eyes the answer.

  Nick shook his head. "The executive protection unit…"

  "What about it?"

  "Furloughed. City hall wants to save money."

  Amy gasped. "What about the workers?"

  "Furloughed."

  Amy's eyes opened wide. They'd talked about that possibility only this morning. "Everyone in the unit?"

  Nick nodded. "That's the word on the street."

  Amy put down her cup, stared into her husband's eyes, then saw the ironic twist to his lips. "There's more," she said, wondering whether she would like it.

  "Yep, got to hand it to Lieutenant Kostopoulos, he's more politician than the politicians."

  "How so?"

  "He's assigned everyone who worked in the unit to new roles. When the city hall ax falls, they'll be furloughing an empty unit."

  "So," said Amy thoughtfully, "Lieutenant Kostopoulos pushed you into the lollipop unit to save your job?"