Amy King Cozy Mysteries- The Complete Series

by N. C. Lewis

  "A word to the wise, Detective King." Mrs. Edwards' face looked grim. "Lieutenant Kostopoulos is in a foul mood this morning. Whatever he wants, you'd better just nod and agree. Figure the rest out later."

  Right now Nick needed another coffee, and maybe a handful of donut holes, but all he could do was brace himself for what was to come. As he entered the lieutenant's office, he swallowed hard to control the rising acid in his stomach.

  It didn't work.

  Lieutenant Kostopoulos sat scowling at one of a dozen documents on his desk. "Come in Detective King," he said in a flat voice. "Take a seat; I'll be with you in a moment."

  The lieutenant, not an easy man to get along with, seemed even more ascetic than usual. He didn't look up as Nick perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair.

  For several minutes Nick bounced his knee. Damp patches of sweat formed on his hands as he ran through various scenarios and outcomes in his mind. None looked particularly good. He glanced at the wall clock. The seconds' hand seemed to slow as if he was a condemned man walking to the gallows. Its sharp click reminded him of the urgent tug of the hangman's noose as the trap doors opened.

  As Nick was about to cough, the lieutenant let out a low, frustrated growl and tossed the document he had been reading aside. He looked up, cracked his knuckles, his lips flat to his face, eyes hooded.

  "Detective King, did you get a lot done on Saturday?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The lieutenant stared hard at Nick.

  "Mr. Sartain," he began with an unreadable expression on his face, "I believe is a name with which you are familiar?"

  There was a long gap.

  Ticktock, ticktock.

  The harsh accusatory sound jerked Nick into a mumbled acknowledgment.

  "Yes, sir. I am familiar with Mr. Sartain."

  Nick felt certain the meeting was going to play out along the lines of one of his dismal scenarios. He rubbed his hands on his legs and awaited his fate.

  "Detective King, you're assigned to the lollipop liaison unit, is that correct?" The lieutenant's eyes narrowed.

  "Yes, sir."

  "We have previously discussed the possibility of you returning to the executive protection unit. Is that correct?" His tone remained neutral, unreadable.

  That surprised Nick, he'd prepared his mind to talk about Mr. Sartain and the Mrs. Foreman case. "Yes, sir."

  The lieutenant watched Nick closely, eyebrows slightly raised. "Good, good. I'm pleased you are still eager and excited about returning to your former position. Believe me, I'm your biggest fan."

  There was nothing Nick wanted more than to return to the executive protection unit, but there was a rather large problem.

  "Sir," Nick began carefully, "the unit was furloughed?"

  A slow smile crept across the lieutenant's face. "Ah, the political winds are forever changing. City hall wanted more emphasis on community policing—"

  "Hence my reassignment to the lollipop liaison unit," interrupted Nick stepping outside of the usual procedure of deference to your superior officer. "So, resources were reallocated, and my unit closed."

  The lieutenant's lips pressed together to form a white slash. "Indeed, that was how things unfolded." He glanced down at the documents on his desk, then up at Nick. "Detective King, if the unit were to reopen, I hope you know that you would be in line for the head detective slot, the one you previously occupied." The slow smile returned; his eyes radiated shrewdness. "Would that be agreeable to you?"

  "Absolutely, sir," Nick replied. He knew the man was working up to something and didn't want to interrupt, so kept his answers to a minimum and simply acknowledged the obvious. "I'd love to rebuild the old team, sir."

  Lieutenant Kostopoulos drummed his fingers on the desktop. "It appears," he began in slow measured tones, "Mr. Sartain is a good friend of the city manager to whom, as you know, our chief reports." He fell silent for a few moments letting the words hang in the air, his fingers once again drumming on the desk.

  Nick waited him out.

  A deep sigh, the drumming stopped, and the lieutenant reached into a drawer, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, shook one out and popped it into his mouth. He didn't smoke, never had. But the cigarettes came out as did Shakespeare when he was under pressure.

  "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here," the lieutenant growled in a low, somber voice.

  Nick shifted in his seat. He wasn't sure where this was going or what the lieutenant wanted. "Sir?"

  "William Shakespeare," the lieutenant said in the way of explanation. "The Bard of Avon died over four hundred years ago, but he could have been talking about the folks in city hall."

  "Not sure I'm following you, sir."

  Lieutenant Kostopoulos sniffed. "I begin each day at police department headquarters by telling myself I will meet with interference, ingratitude, insolence, disloyalty, ill will, and egotism—all of them from those devils in city hall, our paymasters."

  Nick let out a sigh of relief. This wasn't about him, directly. "I see, sir." But he didn’t. Not clearly, anyway.

  Lieutenant Kostopoulos formed his hands into a steeple. "I had a call from the chief an hour ago, and he wants an update later in the week on the progress of the Mrs. Foreman investigation. It seems the city manager has taken a sudden interest in the case."

  Now Nick understood. The lieutenant was on the hot seat.

  The lieutenant squinted, hand rubbing his brow. "The city manager wants a briefing Friday. I told the chief I had assigned a detective to the case."

  "Who?"

  "Mary Wilson."

  That surprised Nick.

  "She's on vacation!"

  Lieutenant Kostopoulos lowered his eyes. "I want you to investigate Mrs. Foreman's death, get back to me with something to chew on. You've already met with Mr. Sartain and reviewed the case files?"

  Nick's morning had just gotten a lot more interesting. He had a thousand follow-up questions for the lieutenant but decided to ask just one; the others could wait. "When is your meeting with the chief?"

  "Day before he meets with the city manager—Thursday, late. I need something concrete by then. At the minimum a list of potential suspects."

  "What about my lollipop liaison duties?"

  Lieutenant Kostopoulos picked up a stack of papers and shuffled through it. "City hall wants a senior detective heading the lollipop liaison unit. That's your official position. If this case is quickly resolved, I'll see to it you get the credit, and attitudes might change, especially toward the executive protection unit."

  Smoke and mirrors, Nick thought, thankful he wasn't in the lieutenant's shoes. "I understand, sir."

  Lieutenant Kostopoulos rose to his feet. The meeting was over.

  "Detective King, we don't want the press all over this one," the lieutenant said as Nick opened the door to leave. "Please keep this investigation under the radar; we don't want it falling into the hands of the media until we have made progress."

  Chapter 20

  Amy glanced around the run-down house with a deep sense of sadness. Even at ten in the morning, under a clear blue sky, the place looked decrepit. The paint was peeling in great flakes from the wooden siding, the yard filled with clumps of weeds, and the rutted path that led to the front door marked this little white house as even more tumbledown than the other houses on a shabby street.

  "Come on, Danielle, this is the address Auntie Folate gave for Lizzie's apartment."

  "Amy girl, I remember when this was an up-and-coming part of town. Must be twenty years ago since I was last here. The place has really changed for the worse."

  Amy stared at the rutted path. She half-wondered how the woman was able to drive a car and couldn't imagine maneuvering a wheelchair along such a rough surface. At least, she thought with sympathy, there's a ramp to the front door. The two friends hurried along the path, occasionally glancing around at the empty street, but there were no passersby, no cars driving along, not even a stray cat. It was as if they were
in a lost part of town, an area abandoned by all but the derelict.

  "The doorbells are not numbered," Amy said, standing on the covered porch. "I wonder which one Lizzie's is?"

  Danielle peered at the buzzers. "There are only five, I may as well ring them all."

  She pressed each buzzer in turn.

  There was no sound, no response, no movement in the house. After five minutes Danielle banged on the front door.

  "What is it?" A voice cried from overhead.

  They looked up.

  A youngish man with thinning, shoulder-length hair peered out of an upstairs window. "Is this old shack on fire? Well, if it is, I'm not sorry, should have been torn down years ago!"

  "No, no fire," Danielle answered.

  "Not even a whiff of smoke?"

  "No."

  The man riffled a hand through his hair. "Are you from the Internal Revenue Service?"

  "We are looking for Lizzie," Danielle replied.

  Amy added, "Lizzie Dawson. Do you know which buzzer is hers?"

  "I've no idea. It doesn't matter though. None of the buzzers work. I'll come down."

  A few moments later, the man, wearing a faded T-shirt and shorts, peered out the front door. "Hi, I'm Peter Thistle, live on the second floor. This way."

  Peter led them along a narrow corridor and stopped by the staircase. "I'm a poet, rarely rise before noon," he said conversationally. "Lizzie's door is over there."

  "Thank you," Danielle said as she and Amy walked by.

  Peter remained at the staircase, watching as they knocked on the door.

  There was no answer.

  "Probably at work," Peter called out. "Lizzie works downtown at a place called Rumpus House. It's on the trail under MoPac by the lake. Why don't you try there?"

  But Amy knew the business had closed. She expected Lizzie to be home. "When did you see her last?"

  Peter shrugged. "Lizzie's like the mailman, she melts into the background. In the morning she goes to work, stays at home most evenings. On the weekends she volunteers for the animal sanctuary. Lizzie is as regular as clockwork. I spoke with her yesterday evening, around five." He placed his hands on his hips. "Lizzie and I were part of the same acting troop for a while, but she's not been the same since her diagnosis."

  "Diagnosis?" Amy asked.

  "I don't like to gossip, but I overheard her mention that she'd had her car adapted…so she can drive. I shouldn't have been eavesdropping on her cell-phone conversation, but when I stand at the top of the staircase…well, I can hear everything…and Lizzie was shouting…I guess it's the stress." Peter's voice dropped an octave. "I think her sickness is chronic. It's confined her to a wheelchair. I haven't asked about it, yet. It's all too recent. But I've written a poem, hoping it will help her share. Would you like to hear it?"

  Amy half turned to Danielle and signaled "no" with her eyes, but Danielle's lips curved into a mischievous grin. "Sure, go for it, friend."

  "Doctor.

  Diagnosis.

  Doom!

  Day.

  Night.

  Fright!

  Legs gone.

  Can't walk.

  Don't give up the fight!"

  "Deep!" Danielle stifled a chuckle. "Peter, that is so meaningful, moving, profound."

  That seemed to encourage him. "You think so? That was the final few lines. Wait till you hear the rest of it. Would you like to hear it now?"

  Danielle's grin vanished. She didn't respond.

  Peter glanced with hopeful eyes at Amy.

  Oh no, she thought. "Oh yes," she said. "Just a few lines."

  He cleared his throat, puffed out his chest and began.

  "A weasel is wild. A wallet is wrecked. Especially when there's medical debt.

  A weasel can jump. Doc bills come with a thump. Make you stay up at night and feel you're sunk.

  A weasel is free. No need for money. We'll do what we can to help you, Lizzie."

  Peter paused, as if waiting for the adulation of his newfound fans.

  Silence.

  "I'm still tweaking it, waiting for the muse to strike." His voice was apologetic. "When it is ready, I'll share with Lizzie, and perform at the Green Door Café's Friday night Poetry Slam."

  The creak of the front door echoed along the hallway. A moment later came the sound of scuffling. Lizzie appeared. She was hunched over in her wheelchair, face as pale as a clown.

  "Here she is! The wonder woman of the moment," Peter cried in a cheery voice. Then he placed his hands on his hips. "Why aren’t you at work?"

  Lizzie didn’t answer but stared at Danielle and Amy.

  "Hi Lizzie, I'm Amy King, and this is my friend Danielle."

  "I remember you," Lizzie said in a feeble voice. "We met at the animal shelter open house, right?"

  "That's right," Amy answered. "You invited me to visit with Maxi. Unfortunately, you had left the orphaned animals barn by the time I arrived."

  Lizzie appeared to relax. "So sorry I missed you, but I don't bring the animals home. They sleep at the sanctuary." Then she grew suspicious. "You didn’t track me down to my home address to ask me about a baby goat. What do you want?"

  "We want to speak with you about Mrs. Foreman. Auntie Folate gave us your home address. I hope you don't mind. "

  Lizzie leaned forward in her wheelchair and slipped a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, I have nothing much to say… Still processing her death…and looking for a new job."

  Peter let out a gasp. "Your boss is dead? What happened?"

  Lizzie wheeled herself by the stairwell to her front door. "Someone broke into Rumpus House and killed her."

  Peter's eyes grew wide. "Who?"

  "They say it was the Beast of MoPac," Lizzie replied, her voice dropping to a murmur.

  "The Beast of MoPac!" Peter spluttered. "I thought that was an urban myth, generated by the Man to keep us in our place. Are you telling me it is true, and we should be on our guard?" He rested a hand against the wall as if caught by a sudden blow.

  "I—I…don't know. All I know is that Mrs. Foreman is dead," Lizzie stammered, close to tears.

  "It's all right, dear," Amy began in a gentle voice. "It must be difficult for you."

  Lizzie glanced up, a weak smile creasing her pale lips. "It is, but I'm determined to see it through."

  Peter's face brightened. He flicked his long hair over his shoulder and jabbed a finger in the air like a literature professor about to make an important point. "Murder," he began in a pompous voice, "strikes at the basic human emotion—fear. Fear of being exposed, fear of being caught, and the ultimate fear—death." He hopped from leg to leg as if suddenly excited. "Ladies, please excuse me. I feel inspiration coming on. I must return to my room to jot down my thoughts before the muse passes." He turned and disappeared with speed up the stairs, his footsteps receding into the distance.

  "What would you like to know?" Lizzie asked when he had gone. "The past few days have been very stressful, and my health is not what it once was."

  "We are collecting background information on Mrs. Foreman," Amy said.

  Lizzie swallowed hard. "Are you police officers?"

  "No," Danielle answered. "But we are interested in finding out as much as possible about Mrs. Foreman, so the information can be handed over to the authorities and the killer tracked down."

  "Interesting." Lizzie picked at a speck of dust on the armrest of the wheelchair. "Are you private investigators?"

  Danielle shook her head. "We don't work for any business or organizations. Amy and I are simply concerned citizens hoping to collect enough information to see justice served."

  Lizzie smiled. "I'll do all that I can to help. What do you want to know?"

  "We are not sure," Amy admitted, then she thought for a moment. "Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Mrs. Foreman?"

  "No."

  "Maybe not physically, but what about business rivals?"

  Lizzie closed her eyes, a hand resting on h
er chin. For several moments she remained still, reminding Amy of a statue in a hidden corner of an Egyptian temple. Then, at last, her eyes snapped open.

  "Rumpus House has been very successful. Mrs. Foreman just hired a new assistant, Trixie Nithercott, to help expand the business. Trixie worked for Kitty Clawfoot. Mrs. Clawfoot used to run the business next door—Kitty's Café, an upscale restaurant that served gourmet dishes to pet cats."

  "You say used to run, what happened?" asked Amy with growing interest.

  "The café failed a few days ago." Lizzie placed a hand to her cheek, her eyes growing wide, face sickly pale, and she began to shake her head. "No...no it can't be!"

  Amy reached down to take her hand.

  It was clammy.

  And trembling.

  "It's okay, honey," Amy said softly. "Tell us what you know."

  "I—I—I don't want to spread gossip, but Mrs. Foreman had just taken over the Kitty's Café building…against Mrs. Clawfoot's wishes!"

  Chapter 21

  Nick stood outside the office of Lieutenant Kostopoulos and looked into the distance. A little spiderweb of doubt was spinning in his stomach about the Mrs. Foreman case. There wasn't much to go on, and even if he brought Officer Chambers into the investigation, which he intended to do, there wasn't much time to dig up something the lieutenant could "chew on."

  "Is everything all right?" Mrs. Edwards asked, eyeing Nick with concern and sipping from another cup of her chamomile tea.

  "Nothing out of the unusual," Nick replied with a wry smile. "The lieutenant has given me Mission Impossible!"

  Mrs. Edwards folded her arms, glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. "Is this about the investigation into the death of Mrs. Foreman?"

  Nick took a moment to weigh his response. Mrs. Edwards managed the lieutenant's schedule. She was a woman Nick wanted on his side, and he worked hard to keep it that way.

  "Lieutenant Kostopoulos wants a result by Thursday."

  "A result?" She didn’t attempt to hide the surprise in her voice. Again, she sipped from her cup. "That's a tall order."

  Nick agreed, but said, "Or at least something to chew on."

  Mrs. Edwards let out a low chuckle, but her eyes became deadly serious. "Detective King, if you don't give Lieutenant Kostopoulos something to chew on, the chief will chew on him. And guess who the lieutenant will gnaw?" She lowered her voice to a whisper. " I'm sure you understand the consequences."