Amy King Cozy Mysteries- The Complete Series

by N. C. Lewis

  "So you're here all day?" Nick's voice was a low growl.

  Chambers eased open the remaining button of his jacket. "Sure. I hadn't realized how quiet it is on Saturdays; I think I'll get much more done. Want a coffee? I'm just about to grab one from the kitchen."

  Nick needed Chambers out of the way long enough to allow him to look at the computer files in peace. He made a quick decision. "Yuck! It's Saturday, Dunkin' Donuts or bust."

  Chambers' eyes glistened, tongue darted greedily around his lips. "Agreed. I better head out now, get in front of the Saturday crowds."

  "You go ahead. Once I'm finished, I might join you."

  Officer Chambers needed no further encouragement. He sprang up, almost falling over his feet in his anxiety to get out of the office before Nick changed his mind. "I'll have your regular brew waiting, large, half and half, one sugar," he said as he shuffled around the corner that led to the exit.

  Slow routine work cracked most cases. Who knew the victim, where did she hang out, and with whom? When and where was she seen last? Did she have family, friends? What did she do in her free time; any hobbies? Had any threats against her life been made or reported? The answers to these standard questions collected and analyzed often teased out the truth. With Chambers gone, Nick could take his time reviewing the answers hidden in the computer records.

  Nick logged into his computer and pulled up Mrs. Foreman's file. But even though this was the digital age, the files contained no answers: Little more than the reporting officer, time of discovery and name and address of the caller, Trixie Nithercott. Nothing else. Frankly, it was going to be a long tough slog, and he was beginning to have doubts about it now.

  The desk phone rang several times jolting Nick out of his morose thoughts.

  "Detective King?" The voice was official.

  "Yes."

  "I'm Officer Rees Jones. You left me a message to call you back about—"

  Nick had crossed paths with Officer Jones frequently and knew a little about his private life. "First things first," he interrupted in a cheery voice. "How is your wife, and your darling baby daughter Charlotte?" Nick made a point of treating junior officers with respect. It often paid big dividends with information about criminal activity on the street or unseen police department politics.

  "She still has the lungs of a tiger, but she is sleeping a little better at night now."

  "Good, good. Sleep feels like pure gold when you can't get it."

  "Sure does. Until you've had a child it's hard to comprehend!"

  Nick chuckled then got down to business. "Officer Jones, I'm looking into the death of Mrs. Foreman. I believe you were the responding officer?"

  "That's right," Officer Jones replied in a shaky voice. "It was a sight."

  The conversation lasted thirty minutes.

  Nick learned nothing new.

  There was only one thing he could think to do now. Hit the street, visit the scene of the crime, and search for overlooked clues.

  Chapter 16

  Amy stepped tentatively into the barn. The smell of manure, animals, feed, and dust hung in the air. It was dark, and for several moments while her eyes adjusted, she stood just inside the door listening to the occasional bleat of unseen animals.

  Her reason for visiting the barn was to see Maxi and spend a little time petting the cute dwarf goat before heading home. But, more importantly, she wanted to speak with Lizzie Dawson about Mrs. Foreman. Perhaps Lizzie knew something that would help capture the killer, or at the very least give background information about Mrs. Foreman's life and business.

  Bales of hay were stacked in one corner of the wooden structure, and sacks of feed in another. Amy marveled at Lizzie's ability to maneuver a wheelchair around such a difficult setting. Then remembering an article she'd read about wheelchair-bound people scuba diving understood—Lizzie's love of animals and dedication to their care was sufficient.

  An empty wheelbarrow leaned against a wooden stall from which came the sound of shuffling and scratching.

  "Hello?" Amy called. "Lizzie, is that you?"

  More shuffling and scratching.

  "Is someone there?"

  A face peered out from the stall. It was the seventh grader Amy had seen in the aviary, the girl who knew all about birds. "Are you here to see capra aegagrus hircus?"

  "Pardon?"

  The girl's eyes narrowed. "Capra aegagrus hircus?" She jutted out her chin in that all-knowing way common to children of her age. "The baby orphan goat! Are you here to see capra aegagrus hircus?"

  Before Amy answered, another face appeared. It was the teenage girl who had earlier greeted visitors at the entrance. "Come on over," she said in a friendly voice. "We are about to feed Maxi."

  The seventh grader folded her arms. "Why do you insist on calling the creature Maxi? Don't you know the Nigerian dwarf goat originated in West Africa? They offer a wonderful source of milk and meat and have fed West Africans for centuries." Once again, she jutted out her chin. "The humanization of animals by giving them a name is…detestable!"

  "Oh Hannah, shut up!" the teenager snapped.

  Hannah stuck out her tongue. "Gonna tell Mommy you were rude to me!"

  "It is going to, not gonna. Speak English!"

  The squabble reminded Amy of the fights between Victoria and Ruby when they were children. "I didn't come here to hear you two sisters argue," Amy said in a firm voice. "I came here to visit Maxi, or"—she smiled at the seventh grader—"if you prefer, capra aegagrus hircus. Now can I see her?"

  For several minutes Amy watched as the two sisters gently handled and fed the tiny baby goat. It surprised her at how vigorously Maxi drank from the bottle. After it had drained the last drop, it let out a low bleat.

  "All done," the teenager said in a loving voice. "Sleepy time now."

  It was then Amy remembered the second reason for her visit to the barn: Lizzie Dawson. "Where is Lizzie—Lizzie Dawson?"

  The teenager looked up. "She was here earlier. I believe she went to the bird aviary."

  "No!" cried the seventh grader. "She left an hour ago. I saw her pass through the main gate and climb into her car."

  Chapter 17

  The noonday sun shone high and bright in a clear blue sky when Nick stepped out of his car and headed for the trail that led to Rumpus House. The shade of tall oak trees offered relief against the biting heat, although they did little to reduce the humidity.

  Joggers moved gracefully along the trail mingling with hikers, and young couples pushed strollers. Dog walkers were out in large numbers. They were always on the trail come rain or shine. Occasional tourists huffed and puffed, stopping for lengthy periods at the water fountains dotted along the trail.

  Nick slung his jacket over his shoulder, strolled at a leisurely pace and tried to chase away the rising tide of frustration he felt about the case. If it weren't for Amy, he'd be at home now reading a James Patterson novel, or perhaps glancing at his watch, or sitting on his porch enjoying a cool beer. Instead, he was in his work clothes: gray suit with button-down, white shirt, in the noonday heat heading toward a murder scene.

  He grunted heavily as he stood on the doorstep outside Rumpus House. A printed notice attached to the front door explained the business was shuttered for the foreseeable future. Large bouquets of flowers leaned against a side railing. There were pink gladiolus, white carnations, rainbow-colored chrysanthemums, and roses—lots of roses.

  For several minutes Nick lowered his head to read. Most expressed condolences. "Seems Mrs. Foreman was popular," he muttered glancing at a single red rose. It was attached to a small note with three words neatly handwritten—Love conquers all.

  Nick straightened up and tried the door handle—locked. He peered inside, but the interior was too dark for him to make out anything. He stepped back and glanced around. The red-painted, barn-like structure reminded him of his childlike home and simpler days.

  "Hey, you! Get away from there."

  Nick spun aroun
d.

  A tall, slim man, north of sixty, wearing mirrored shades to shield his eyes from the sun, jabbed a finger in the air. "Rumpus House is closed, permanently." He looked Nick up and down. "You a cop?"

  Nick flashed his ID.

  The man greeted Nick with a handshake of uncertain warmth. "I'm Mr. Sartain, the owner of this property and all these others," he said, waving his arms in a broad sweep. "Do you know how much tax I pay to the city?"

  Nick didn't answer.

  "All that money and what happens? One of my loyal customers is murdered on my property!" He let out a disgruntled snort. "I've got connections you know! Well, Detective King, you're here now. How can I help you track down the killer?"

  Nick forced a smile. "By answering a few questions. I'm sure it will only take a moment."

  "Go ahead. I'll do my best to help."

  Nick smiled again. "Did you identify the victim?"

  "Yes, Detective King, I had that unfortunate task. Mrs. Foreman was one of my best clients. As far as I know, she had no family."

  Nick took out his notebook. "Go back to the beginning. What happened?"

  Mr. Sartain's face grew grim, and he took off his sunglasses. "I… I was doing my normal morning rounds when Miss Nithercott came running down the steps out of Rumpus House screaming and yelling that Mrs. Foreman was dead." He gestured toward the door. "I told Miss Nithercott, Trixie is her first name, to wait by the door and went inside." His face turned grim. He shook his head, unable to continue.

  "And you found Mrs. Foreman dead?"

  Mr. Sartain nodded. "I'm no expert, Detective King, but I'd say Mrs. Foreman put up a good fight."

  Nick made a note. The medical examiner would confirm that fact. "Have you noticed anything suspicious over the past few weeks?"

  Mr. Sartain shook his head.

  "Any break-in's or vandalism?"

  Again, Mr. Sartain shook his head. "I hire a nighttime security guard, but we've never had an incident."

  "Are you aware of any threats made against Mrs. Foreman?"

  Mr. Sartain shifted uncomfortably and looked away." Why would anyone want to threaten Mrs. Foreman?"

  Nick lowered his eyes to review his notebook. All the time he sensed the man staring at his lowered head. There was something Mr. Sartain was keeping back. After two minutes, he looked up just in time to see Mr. Sartain avert his gaze.

  "Is anything wrong?" Nick asked.

  Again, Mr. Sartain shifted uncomfortably. "No… No, why do you ask?"

  "Because you haven't answered my question. Are you aware of any threats made against Mrs. Foreman?"

  He lowered his eyes. "There may have been…something…. I'm sure it's nothing."

  "Why don't you tell me about it?"

  "Mrs. Foreman"—he let out a heavy sigh—"may have mentioned she had received a threat."

  At last, Nick thought, there was something to dig his teeth into. "A threat?"

  "A note."

  Nick's questioning went into high gear. "From a boyfriend?"

  Mr. Sartain shrugged. "Don't know… No, it was not from a boyfriend. Mrs. Foreman was too busy for relationships."

  "What did the note say?"

  "I don't know. I didn't read it. Mrs. Foreman simply waved it at me but kept it firmly in her hand. It was a scrawled handwritten script written on a slip of paper."

  "Do you have any idea who wrote the note?"

  He rubbed his chin. "I'm not sure, exactly. She said it was signed 'Speakeasy.'"

  "Speakeasy?"

  "Yes. Mrs. Foreman wanted to know if I knew anyone who went by that name. I don't and told her so."

  Nick jotted the name in his notebook. "Did Mrs. Foreman report the threat to the police?"

  Mr. Sartain's faced turned the color of a tomato. "What would the police have done? I'll tell you what. Absolutely nothing! Can't understand where our tax dollars are going. Crimes on the rise and the police stand on the sidelines watching. What good is that?"

  The rant did not throw Nick off track. Now wasn't the time for political debate. "Did Mrs. Foreman report the threat?"

  "Not to the police, no. Mrs. Foreman approached me as the property owner. I told her it was probably nothing, a prank, but I passed on the information to my nighttime security guard. I instructed him to make a special note of keeping an eye on Rumpus House."

  For several moments Nick wrote in his notebook. Then he looked up. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

  Mr. Sartain dropped his voice to a whisper. "I thought the whole thing was a prank…didn't want to spook my other clients...but Good Lord now with this gruesome murder…"

  Nick raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

  "Mrs. Foreman wanted to speak with me about a matter of some urgency."

  "Really?"

  "I didn't pay much attention. You see, everything was a matter of urgency to Mrs. Foreman."

  "What did she want to talk with you about?"

  "Information."

  "About what?"

  "I've no idea, but I wonder if it had something to do with the Beast of MoPac."

  "The Beast of MoPac?"

  Mr. Sartain's eyes grew wide. "Yes, that's what locals are calling the murderer. Mrs. Foreman often worked late. I'm thinking she uncovered the killer's identity."

  Nick stared hard at Mr. Sartain. "When did she plan to speak with you?"

  Mr. Sartain glanced at his watch. "Today, right about now." He paused and gestured with his hands. "Now, Detective King, are there any more questions?"

  "Just one, what is the name of your security guard?"

  "Duke Savage."

  Nick closed his notebook. "That's all for now. Thank you for your time." He turned, strolled back toward the trail, all the while aware of Mr. Sartain’s eyes watching him.

  Chapter 18

  "By the time I went back to the little barn Lizzie Dawson had already left," said Amy taking a sip from her glass of iced tea. "So I didn't meet with her to discuss Mrs. Foreman." She was sitting on the deck in the late afternoon at home with Nick, recalling her visit to the animal sanctuary.

  "From what I understand only two other people were working in the business—Lizzie Dawson and Trixie Nithercott." Nick took a long slow gulp of beer. "Miss Nithercott discovered the body. It must have shaken her and Lizzie up."

  Amy put down her glass. "Auntie Folate took it especially badly. She and Mrs. Foreman were good friends."

  For the next hour, as the sun hung low in the western sky, the couple discussed their day and what they had discovered.

  "I'd like to visit Lizzie Dawson at her home on Monday," Amy said carefully.

  Nick took a long slow drink. "Are you sure?"

  From his tone, Amy knew he was considering her suggestion. "I'm certain it will be useful and help with your investigation."

  "Be careful."

  "I'll go with Danielle."

  He raised an eyebrow but didn’t object. "The department will assign a detective to the case on Monday. If that happens, I'll hand over any information you gather Tuesday morning, and that will have to be the end to your sleuthing. Agreed?"

  Amy smiled at her husband. "Agreed." She took a sip from her glass. "What about the security guard Duke Savage?"

  "I'll track him down Monday. It might be after work though."

  "Do you think he'll be able to throw any light on the mysterious Speakeasy?"

  Nick shrugged and turned to the sound of laughter drifting through the French doors.

  Victoria and Zach, arm in arm, strolled onto the deck.

  "What a beautiful sunset," said Victoria easing herself into a chair. "I missed these when I was in London."

  Amy glanced from Zach to Victoria. "You two seemed to have cheered up. Do you have good news about our grandchildren?"

  Victoria giggled. "Nothing new to report from the twins. Would you like to know how I am feeling?"

  "No thank you," laughed Amy, "I've been through that twice—I know." She turned to Zach. "I want to hear
about what's going on with you."

  Victoria snuggled close to Zach who shook his head. "London police have charged the chief executive officer of Bacopa Holdings, Zorro Thompson, with fraud."

  "Did he steal investor funds?" asked Nick.

  "Sort of. The authorities allege Zorro ordered his senior team to manipulate the initial test results. The positive outcomes encouraged investors to part with their cash, including us."

  "Oh dear," Amy sighed. "That's so disappointing. The breath blood glucose device sounded like such a good idea. How do you feel about it all?"

  Zach looked up, his eyes twinkling. " I've decided there is no sense in thinking about Bacopa Holdings because the company is no more and sitting here feeling sorry for myself will not solve anything, or get me another job, either."

  "There is nothing we can do about the mistakes of the past," added Victoria. "We can only look to the future now."

  Chapter 19

  Nick had just logged into his computer at police department headquarters that Monday morning when Barbara Edwards, Lieutenant Kostopoulos' administrative officer, stopped by his desk holding a cup of chamomile tea in her hand. "The lieutenant wants to see you."

  "Me too?" asked Officer Chambers, draining the last drop of coffee from his cup so fast rivulets of it trickled down his double chin.

  "No, just Detective King."

  Chambers raised his palms in the air and looking toward the ceiling let out a gurgle of relief. "I've got things covered here, boss," he cooed as Nick stood up. "I might nip out and get a box of donut holes. I've got a feeling we'll need cheering up once you are done."

  Nick ignored the comment and hurried after Mrs. Edwards.

  "Any idea what the lieutenant wants?"

  They were already at the lieutenant's door when she answered in almost a whisper. "Something to do with a Mr. Sartain."

  Nick's lips curved into a bitter smile. So much for his plans to fly the Mrs. Foreman murder investigation under the radar. If the lieutenant already knew…

  "I see," Nick replied, mind racing.