The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  “How can I help you, Detective?” I waved a hand for him to sit in the seat Nana Jo vacated.

  One of our customers moved toward the register, and Nana Jo motioned for me to say seated. “I’ve got this. You talk to”—she spoke slowly and deliberately—“Detective Pitt.”

  He smiled. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

  Nana Jo mumbled, “Harder than you know, Stinky,” as she moved to the front of the store.

  Thankfully, Detective Pitt’s cell phone rang and he was engaged and not paying attention. When he was done talking, he looked around as though he was afraid of being seen. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a file and placed it on the table. “If my chief finds out I’m showing this to you, I won’t even be able to get a job as a meter maid.” He took a napkin from the table and wiped his brow.

  I opened the folder. It contained information from the coroner’s report, the crime scene investigators, and forensics. The file was hefty and it took quite a while for me to sift through all of the information.

  Detective Pitt watched nervously, alternating between wiping beads of sweat from his brow and looking over his shoulder.

  “You’re making me nervous. Why don’t you get up and make yourself a cup of coffee or tea.” I pointed to the single-cup brewer on the counter. “Or Nana Jo made a pot of coffee if you’d prefer.”

  He didn’t look as though he was going to move so I upped the ante.

  “Plus, if you look behind the counter there’s a plate of cookies.”

  That did the trick. “Any more of those scone things?”

  I shook my head.

  He got up and went for the cookies.

  I had hoped to save those for our meeting tonight. Between the MISU book club, our meetings to talk about the murders, and store patrons who’d come to love Dawson’s baked goods, the supply hadn’t lasted as long as I hoped. I sighed. I could always make more tonight.

  I returned to the file. It took over thirty minutes for me to get through everything, partly because I didn’t understand the abbreviations and acronyms. I made notes and focused on the things I thought would be most critical. I didn’t bother to think or ponder. I was under a time crunch.

  Detective Pitt ate at least a dozen cookies, dropping a trail of crumbs my dogs would be able to follow like bloodhounds. He paced. He scanned shelves. He took books out and then couldn’t remember where they belonged and left them on tables.

  I tried to concentrate on what I was reading and ignore him, but it was a challenge. Finally, I got through the file and replaced all of the papers.

  Detective Pitt paced behind my chair. When he saw me close the folder, he quickly snatched it up and returned it to his inside pocket.

  I thought about the depth of those pockets that could hold an entire file but shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  He was about to take off but stopped and looked back. “What?”

  “The coroner didn’t find Nana Jo’s fingerprints anywhere near the bedroom. They were only on the door to the apartment.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. She could have worn gloves when she shot her. Or she could have wiped off anything she touched in the bedroom.”

  “But if she was going to wear gloves, she would have put them on before she entered the room, and if she took the time to wipe her fingerprints off the bedroom, why not the doorknob?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She had motive. She had opportunity and means. She’s still our number one suspect.” He headed away.

  “Did you know Maria was blackmailing Horace Evans?”

  That stopped him in his tracks. “What?”

  “And Gaston Renoir.”

  He turned. He looked puzzled.

  “The chef?”

  I nodded.

  “How did you find that out?”

  “We have our ways.” I grinned. “I take it from the look on your face you didn’t know.”

  He shook his head. “What kind of blackmail? What did she have on them?”

  I explained to Detective Pitt what we’d found out about Gaston. Maria found out something about Horace Evans. We didn’t know what yet, but whatever it was, she threatened to get him fired if he didn’t give her the lead in the Senior Follies.

  He looked shock. “She blackmailed him to get a lead role in some senior citizen play?”

  I nodded. “Apparently, but don’t belittle it. The production is very good. They’ve been invited to walk in the Macy’s Day parade and perform on Broadway with the Rockettes.”

  He shook his head. “What did this Gaston guy do?”

  I explained about the poisoning and that was why Maria had eaten such elaborate meals like Lobster Thermidor. “She was blackmailing him to get special accommodations.”

  He took notes but continued to shake his head as he wrote. “That’s crazy. She risked her life to get a part in a musical and special food.” He finished his notes and looked at me. “Anything else?”

  I told him about the lost art and pondered whether I should tell him about Isaac. Isaac Horwitz might have had a reason to kill Magnus von Braun, but he didn’t have one for killing Maria. Besides, he was out of town and couldn’t possibly have killed either one, but I didn’t want to withhold information. So, I told him.

  The cynical gleam was gone when he asked, “Anything else?”

  “No. That’s all for now.”

  He nodded and walked out of the store without a backward glance.

  Nana Jo and I worked companionably until the store closed. We then set up for our meeting.

  Judge Miller was the first to arrive. He spent time perusing the shelves while Nana Jo and I continued to set up. He came into the back room for the meeting with a gleam in his eyes and a book by NY Times best-selling author Stephen L. Carter with the intriguing title The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln. He showed me the book. “Have you read this?”

  “No. I’ve heard good things about the author and the concept is pretty creative.”

  “Fascinating. An alternative history where Abraham Lincoln survives the attack at Ford’s Theatre but goes through an impeachment trial for violating his constitutional authority during the Civil War . . . it sounds absolutely fascinating.”

  He looked so excited, like a kid at Christmas. Today was definitely one of the days when I loved my job.

  When everyone arrived, we started the meeting.

  Nana Jo pulled out her iPad and started to type. “Who’s first?”

  I raised my hand since I wanted to share the information I got from Detective Pitt. I pulled out my notes and read the items I thought were pertinent. Thankfully, Judge Miller was able to decipher some of the confusing acronyms.

  “So, Maria ate her dinner and then about two hours later someone shot her. Her door wasn’t locked when Josephine arrived, but it was locked when the police arrived,” Dorothy asked.

  “That’s about the size of it,” I said.

  “Well, that doesn’t make any sense. If the room was unlocked when Josephine stopped by at nine, then how was it locked at twelve thirty, unless Maria locked it?” Ruby Mae said.

  “Maybe she did.” I shrugged.

  “Then who locked it after they shot her?” Irma asked before breaking into a coughing fit.

  “Maybe the killer locked the door.” Ruby Mae pulled her knitting out of the bag and started to knit.

  “Neat killer. He or she shoots Maria and then locks the door from the inside?” Freddie shook his head. “The dead bolt was engaged. The only way that could happen would be if Maria did it herself.”

  “Then there must be another way for the killer to have escaped.” Judge Miller looked around. “What about a window?”

  We all shook our heads.

  “Nope. That apartment is on the fourth floor,” Freddie explained.

  “Well, it’s definitely a puzzle.” Judge Miller looked around.

  “That’s all I have.” I folded up my notes. “Who wants to
go next?”

  Irma raised her hand. “I never reported on what I found out from Horace.” She took a sip from her flask. “He wouldn’t talk about why he was being blackmailed. In fact, he got quite angry when I asked. It took quite a while for me to smooth things over.” She had a sly smile that indicated she had quite enjoyed smoothing his feathers. “So, I wasn’t able to find out anything about that, but I did find out who the nosy neighbor was.” She took another nip. “Sara Jane Howard.”

  There were groans and eye rolls from all those who lived at Shady Acres. Judge Miller and I stared in confusion.

  Finally, I asked, “Who’s Sara Jane Howard?”

  Irma was still drinking from her flask.

  So, Nana Jo explained, “Sara Jane Howard is the nosiest woman I have ever met. Frankly, I don’t think her elevator goes all the way to the top.” She made the universal signal for crazy with her hand.

  “Okay, so what’s wrong with her?” I asked.

  “She sits at her window and looks out with binoculars every day. She watches everything and everybody that comes and goes.”

  “If you ask her about it, she’ll say she’s bird watching.” Ruby Mae frowned.

  “Bird watching my a—”

  “Irma!”

  “She’s not afraid to ask anybody anything,” Dorothy said. “When I moved in, she had the audacity to ask me how much I paid for my unit.”

  “She asked me why my husband and I had nine children,” Ruby Mae added. “Then she asked how much I made with my cleaning business.”

  “Close your mouth, Sam,” Nana Jo said.

  I was so shocked I hadn’t realized it was open. “Those are pretty personal questions. Why did she want to know?”

  Ruby Mae shrugged. “I have no idea, but I told her flat out it was none of her business.”

  “She asked me what my intentions were to Josephine.” Freddie looked shyly at Nana Jo.

  “Why that little . . .” Nana Jo seemed to hunt for the right word, “busybody.”

  “What do you suppose she did with all this information?” I asked.

  “I can’t imagine anyone actually answering her,” Ruby Mae said.

  “Oh, I’m sure there are people stupid enough to answer her questions,” Nana Jo muttered.

  When the general outcry died down, Irma continued, “I should have guessed, but she doesn’t live on the same floor with Maria. Or, at least she didn’t. Apparently, she was supposed to be watering Agnes Littlefield’s plants.”

  “I forgot Agnes went out of town to visit her sister in Florida. Agnes is ’bout the only friend Sarah’s got.” Ruby Mae frowned.

  “The only one willing to put up with the woman,” Freddie said.

  “She talked about the comings and goings that took place at Maria’s apartment.” Irma smiled. “Glad she can’t see the comings and goings in my apartment.”

  “That’d probably give her a right good shock,” Nana Jo quipped.

  “You got that right.” Irma laughed and then coughed. “That’s about it.”

  “Well, I decided to take Denise Bennett’s art class today,” Dorothy said. “She isn’t very good, but I thought it might give me a chance to talk to her. She doesn’t talk much, that one. Trying to get something useful out of her is like getting gold from Fort Knox.” Dorothy looked disgusted. “I asked her if she’d heard about Gaston Renoir having been on trial for murder and she merely looked at me. She wouldn’t say one word.”

  “Maybe she’s trying to protect the property,” Judge Miller said. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to admit she knew anything in case there’s ever a lawsuit. She won’t be able to claim ignorance.” He shook his head. “Not that ignorance is an acceptable defense in court, but you’d be surprised how many people think it is.”

  “The only thing she said was Maria’s body would be buried in accordance with her faith,” Dorothy said.

  I wondered how she knew what Maria’s faith was, but then I wasn’t familiar with Maria. She might have told her. I would have to ask someone.

  Judge Miller raised his hand. “I found out something.” He pulled a paper from his pocket and put on his reading glasses. “You asked if I could find out about Horace Evans’s background.” He looked at me. “He went to prison for embezzlement.”

  I gasped. “Isn’t he the bookkeeper for Shady Acres?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “He sure is,” Nana Jo said.

  “I wonder if Denise Bennett is aware of that?” Ruby Mae asked.

  “Looks like Shady Acres is a halfway house for ex-cons,” Freddie said.

  Judge Miller held up a hand. “Now, hold on folks. The embezzlement was over forty years ago. Best I can tell, his biggest issue was sloppy work and trusting the wrong person. Money was withdrawn from the production company and he was the producer. There was no proof that he took the money, but it happened on his watch. So, he was held responsible.” He read on. “He served his debt to society. Two years in a minimum security prison in upstate New York. He was released on good behavior.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Nana Jo typed. “Elliot wasn’t able to find out a lot about Maria, but he did find out she spent some time in upstate New York too. Apparently, she worked at a prison in upstate New York.”

  “I wonder if she knew Horace,” I said. “Did he say if it was a men’s or women’s prison?”

  Nana Jo looked through her e-mails. “He didn’t say, but I’ll send an e-mail and ask him to find out.” She typed for several seconds and then looked up. “That’s about all I have.”

  Irma smiled. “I had no idea Horace was an ex-con. I can’t imagine him in prison. It’s rather sexy.” She coughed.

  I pulled out my notes and looked at Detective Pitt’s timeline. “Both Horace and Gaston visited Maria the night she was murdered.”

  “So, either one could have done it,” Dorothy said.

  “I don’t know about that, but at least they were in the general vicinity.” I didn’t want to sound too discouraging, but I couldn’t see how they could have killed her and locked the door from the inside and escaped before the police arrived.

  Freddie volunteered to go next. “I finally got a chance to watch the security footage from the night Magnus died and the night Maria died.” He shook his head. “I didn’t see anything unusual or anyone suspicious.” He pulled out a small notebook. “We already knew Magnus had treatment the day he died. He also had a prescription delivered. But, unless the North Harbor Pharmacy had a reason to put cyanide in his pills, I can’t see any reason the prescription would be poisoned—”

  “Oh, I remember one more thing.” I looked at Freddie. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No worries.” He shook his head. “I was done.”

  “Well, Detective Pitt had the pathology report from Magnus. Cause of death was cyanide poisoning, but nothing else they found in his apartment had cyanide.” I looked at Irma. “Nor was cyanide found in the oysters, whiskey, or medicine bottles.”

  She brightened up like a lightbulb. “Really?”

  I nodded.

  Irma looked as though a heavy weight had been removed from her shoulders. She sat taller and straighter.

  Ruby Mae said she didn’t have anything to contribute but promised to get something for tomorrow.

  We talked for a while, but nothing significant was decided.

  It was Friday night and we were all tired. Nana Jo and the girls decided to go out to unwind. Normally, I was the designated driver on these excursions, but tonight I had a date. Nana Jo promised she’d make sure everyone stayed safe. I’d have to accept that promise and not worry. At least I tried not to worry.

  I hurried upstairs to change. I avoided the torture shoes from the other night and put on a brown wool skirt and burgundy cashmere sweater with tights and flats. The local Chamber of Commerce was having a wine and food tasting at the college. Frank was one of the judges and was going to be sampling some of the local cuisine.

  “You look
lovely,” he said when he picked me up.

  “Thanks. You look very nice yourself.”

  Frank was wearing a pair of brown corduroy pants and a turtleneck. He looked scholarly and confident, but I knew he was nervous. This was his first time judging at a local event and he wasn’t sure about the local politics.

  I gave his hand a squeeze. He’d be fine.

  At the college, the Hechtman-Ayres reception room was crowded. There were tables set up around the perimeter. We walked to the registration table. There was a large packet with Frank’s name tag and one for his guest, me. We had a few minutes to stroll around before he was pulled away to start the judging.

  I stood around and tried to look supportive. However, once the tasting started, Frank was in his element and he didn’t need any support or encouragement from me. I stayed and watched for a while but then wandered around and looked at the various booths.

  I was surprised to see Shady Acres had a booth. Businesses from North and South Harbor and surrounding villages participated and not all of these businesses were traditional restaurants or bars, but still it was unexpected to see the retirement village had a booth.

  Denise Bennett and Gaston Renoir were the representatives. I was glad to see familiar faces and approached the table with a big smile. “Mrs. Bennett, I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced. I’m Samantha Washington. My grandmother, Josephine Thomas, lives at Shady Acres.”

  The smile froze on her face. “It’s Miss Bennett, and yes, I remember you.”

  The frost from her greeting was palatable, and I shivered, although it might have had something to do with the fact someone had just opened a nearby door and a cold breeze had just blown through the building.

  “I didn’t know Shady Acres participated in things like this.” I tried to maintain a jovial demeanor, even though I wanted to tell her maybe she should try to be friendlier to one of the judges’ girlfriend or girl-something/date/friend. Or whatever.

  “This is our first year competing. When the board learned of Gaston’s credentials, they were anxious to capitalize on it from a marketing perspective.” She looked at me as though I couldn’t possibly know what marketing meant.