Guidebook to Murder (6 page)

I practiced my best off-the-cuff questions as I got into my Jeep. I turned the key and stared at a flyer stuck to my windshield. Leaning out the driver's door, I grabbed the offending paper. Probably South Cove Vineyard's weekly announcement of a wine tasting on Sunday. Darla, the winery owner, kept trying to get a steady local clientele built to supplement her tourist crowd.

She'd spoken on local marketing during last month's Business to Business meeting sponsored by the council. I resented getting a flyer on my car every week, but I couldn't fault her tenacity. Planning local advertising for the coffee shop would go on the to-do list as soon as I finished planning the funeral and remodeling the house. Throwing the paper on the passenger seat, I drove to Bakerstown.

The drive took just twenty minutes, but the trip took me smack-dab down the coastal highway for a long stretch. A lot of Mondays I made the drive just to clear my head and drink in the ocean's energy. Sitting on a deserted beach with waves crashing calmed my head and my heart. My body recharged, adjusting to the wave rhythm and resetting my internal clock. It might be metaphysical hoo-haw, but the results felt like magic, so who was I to judge? Today I had no time for a stop on the beach, but the drive calmed me just the same.

Last night's open door problem kept nagging at me. Had George and his wife actually made the drive down to see what they missed out on in the will? I figured they were more likely to spend their time with their lawyer, scheming about how to get their hands on whatever money Miss Emily left me. Although I didn't feel totally comfortable with the inheritance, I felt better after meeting the meek George and bull-like Sabrina. Miss Emily must have thought she had a choice of leaving her money to me or the Church of Diseased Cats.

My cell rang in my purse. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I dug through my purse with my right hand, without looking down once. I grabbed the phone and flipped it open. “Yes?”

“Where are you?” Amy's voice came over the speakerphone.

“I thought you were taking off on some trip.”

“This evening. Listen, where are you?” Amy asked, her voice terse.

“On my way to the funeral home, why?” Amy never called me during the day, unless we were heading to Lille's for lunch.

“Your lawyer's here,” Amy mumbled.

“Hold on, I can't hear you.” I rolled up the window, cutting out the road noise. I couldn't understand her. I thought she said my lawyer was at the mayor's office. I didn't have a lawyer, unless you counted Jimmy Marcum. My appointment with him had been changed to Monday. “Okay, go ahead.”

If anything, Amy's voice got lower. “The lawyer from Miss Emily's letter. He's here in Mayor Baylor's office. He just went in.”

I slowed down and considered turning back to South Cove. “How do you know it's him?” I glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

“I heard the mayor introduce him to Bill from the council. The developer guy's here, too. They're all in the office talking right now.” Amy sounded like she'd been locked in a closet. “I left for lunch but forgot my keys. When I came back into the lobby, the four walked into Mayor Baylor's office and closed the door. I don't even think they noticed me.”

“Where are you? I can barely hear you.”

“I'm under my desk. I didn't want them to see me calling you.”

Seriously? What would the mayor and his guests think if they saw a phone cord dangling down under the desk? Sometimes Amy didn't act like she had a master's degree.

“Amy, go to lunch. I've got to meet Doc Ames or Miss Emily won't ever get a proper burial.” My loyalty to Miss Emily won out and kept the Jeep heading to Bakerstown.

“I'll call you when I get back if he's still here.” Amy's voice got louder.

“Just be careful.”

“You don't think they killed Miss Emily, do you?” Amy's voice had a slight quiver. Like when she saw a dead sea lion or an injured bird.

“Just go to lunch. I'll call you as soon as I'm done with Doc Ames.”

“I'm going straight to Lille's and ordering a double order of fish and chips and a milk shake.”

And she wouldn't gain an ounce. Life wasn't fair. “Later.”

I hung up the phone and rolled the window back down to get the wind flowing through the Jeep. I grabbed the granola bar masquerading as my lunch and dreamed of Lille's French fries. By the time I reached the funeral home, I could smell the salt and grease. Tonight's dinner wouldn't be a frozen diet meal. I planned on visiting fast-food heaven before I left the big city. Maybe the salt and fat would ease the pit that had been in my stomach since the reading of the will.

Doc Ames walked me through the funeral process. What would happen, who would speak, even what hymns would be sung. At each step, he'd ask my opinion. By the end of the hour, I'd said “that will be nice” so many times, I wasn't even convincing myself anymore.

And then we were done. Doc Ames walked me out to the parking lot.

“I'm deeply sorry for your loss.” He opened the Jeep's door.

Tears filled my eyes. “She meant a lot to me.”

“Not everyone would go through all this for someone who wasn't related.” Doc Ames shook his head. “Believe me, I've seen too many souls pass through here with no one handling the last requests, no one to grieve. She was lucky to have you as a friend.”

I climbed in the Jeep. “That's where you have it wrong. I was the lucky one.”

He shut the door and waved. “I'll see you Friday for the service.”

I started the car up and headed to fast-food alley. As an emotional eater, I needed to live up to my vice.

When I got back to the house, a black Hummer sat parked in front. Stuffing what remained of the second order of thick steak fries back into the paper bag, I wiped my mouth with my hand. The mushroom and Swiss burger had disappeared soon after leaving the drive-in's parking lot. When I added a vanilla milk shake, the meal had cost the same as one of Lille's rib-eye steak dinners with all the fixings. But it had been worth the price. I'd been starting to feel normal again. Now I had visitors. My stress level ratcheted up as I got out of the Jeep.

A tall Middle Eastern man in a suit that had to have cost more than my Jeep got out of the Hummer and walked toward me. “Miss Gardner?” His voice was deep and smooth, like aged whiskey.

After first wiping my hands on my jeans to remove any last trace of grease and salt, I shook his offered hand. “I'm Jill Gardner, and you are?”

“Admiring your beautiful house caused me to forget my manners. My name is Eric Ammond.”

I stiffened, pulling my hand away from his. “Mayor Baylor's friend. Well, you wasted your time. I'm not selling. Besides, under the conditions of the will, I can't sell.”

“It's never a waste of time to meet such a beautiful woman.” He studied me, scanning my body from head to toe. “It is true. I am interested in buying your lovely home. Can we go inside and talk about what I have to offer?” He put his hand on my shoulder and motioned to the front door.

“I don't think we have anything to talk about, unless you need relationship advice on how to be a better boyfriend to Bambi.” What? I was supposed to fall over myself just because he was probably the most handsome man I had ever met, here or anywhere?

Eric laughed. “So you've met my beautiful Bambi. She is the apple of my eye, so light and positive. But you are dark and brooding, intelligent, and amazing. You and I would have a good time, believe me.”

I shrugged out from under his hand and headed to the house. “Not interested. In you or selling the house, in case you were confused.”

“Not even if I offer three times the market rate for this sad little house?”

“I thought you said the house was beautiful.”

He laughed. “The site will be as soon as I tear the eyesore down and put up my condos.”

“The answer is still no.” I shut the door and engaged the dead bolt, hoping he'd hear the click. I couldn't believe it. He had played the sex card to trick me into selling him the house. Even knowing I knew he had a girlfriend, he'd hit on me. Too bad the beautiful man was evil incarnate.

The mayor's warning about accepting Mr. Ammond's offer echoed in my head, and I couldn't help but wonder what strings he'd pull now.

S
itting in Miss Emily's kitchen—scratch that, my kitchen—the next morning, I checked my growing to-do list. The funeral had been planned and scheduled for Friday. Check. Detective King had given permission for the body to be buried, which wasn't the way they did it on television, where they kept the murder victim on ice until the vile murderer was caught. But I guess things go differently in real life.

I had two days free to clean the house and decide what I wanted to keep. An antiques dealer from Bakerstown had left his card with Doc Ames, saying he'd be glad to drive out to appraise anything I wanted to sell. I paper-clipped his card to my list and poured another cup of coffee. Looking at my calendar, I could get the majority of these projects completed and be back to my normal life by next Tuesday. And Aunt Jackie wouldn't even miss her next cruise.

The reception would be at the Methodist church right after the service. The church women's group was responsible for providing the food and drinks. Other than sending a thank-you note afterward, half check. Doc Ames had given me a list of what was happening when. When I asked what I needed to do, he said the arrangements had all been made. I didn't understand why he hadn't just called me. I'm not a personal-touch kind of girl.

Calling? My heart sank. I told Amy I'd call her back last night.

I pulled a dead cell phone out of my purse. I'd forgotten to put it on the charger. I was surprised she hadn't shown up on my doorstep, sleeping bag in hand. Then I remembered she was on that scouting trip. Amy chaired the local surfer group, and they sponsored some big-deal competition each year.

I pulled the charger cord out of my bag and found a plug-in on the kitchen wall. I headed out to the garage to get some boxes. I might as well start in the kitchen.

Two hours later, I had dishes stacked on the counter, boxes filled with items for the antique dealer and six bags of trash. I had called the local Bakerstown Home Repair box store, and they were scheduled to come tomorrow with a new dishwasher, range, and washer-dryer set. My credit card hovered near the limit, but my meeting with Jimmy Marcum should solve that problem. Otherwise, I would have to sell a lot of coffee to pay for the changes I wanted to make on this place. Or maybe take on a third part-time job to make the payments.

I made more notes on my to-do list. Paint the kitchen, replace flooring, price out cabinets and counters. The list continued to grow. With all the renovations that my ex and I did on the San Francisco houses, I knew I could lay a wood Pergo floor. Maybe I could con Amy into helping me on that one.

I went to check my phone: no messages or missed calls. I called Amy's office number. After five rings, her message machine came on. “This is Amy Newman, South Cove's city planner. I can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message.”

“Hi, Amy. Look, my phone died last night. Call me when you get back tomorrow. I want to ask you something.” I hung up the phone but stared at it for a while. When did the council meet again?

I checked the calendar hanging in Miss Emily's kitchen.
Council Meeting
had been written in red on the twenty-fifth, two weeks away. I had plenty of time. Setting the phone down, I grabbed one of the trash bags and carried it out to the side of the garage. My arm pinched, and I rolled my shoulders to ease the stress. I wouldn't think about my friend, even though every plate I picked up reminded me of Miss Emily.

If I could get most of the cabinets cleaned out, I would go shopping tomorrow while they installed my new appliances. My grandmother always said the kitchen was the heart of the home, so it was the first room on my list to remodel. With it done, I could cook dinner for Aunt Jackie next week before she left as a thank-you.

The phone was ringing when I came back through the door. Stumbling over one of the boxes, I grabbed it. “Amy?”

“No, this is Sadie Michaels down at the church.”

I poured yet another cup from my second pot of the day. Who needed energy drinks when you could mainline caffeine? “What can I do for you, Miss Michaels?”

“Call me Sadie.”

“Sorry, what can I do for you, Sadie?” I sat down at the table. This wasn't going to be a quick call. I could already see that.

“Well, Miss Gardner—”

I interrupted her. “Now, if you're Sadie, then I have to be Jill.”

“Well, Jill, the ladies and I just wanted to let you know that everything is set for the service tomorrow. We'll have a ham and several sides, including Aggie's potato salad and Connie's coleslaw. I know you aren't a member of our church family, so I just wanted to assure you that the meal after the service will be tasty. We went all out for Miss Emily.”

“I'm sure Miss Emily would be pleased.” I was surprised we were having a full meal. I'd expected coffee and cookies. Apparently I had more to learn about this funeral ritual. I wondered what else I was supposed to do afterward. Did I send thank-you notes for the flowers and the food? Did Hallmark sell them? I made a note to call Doc Ames; he would know.

“I wanted to tell you how much you meant to Miss Emily. I'd stop by each week. She was on my visitation route. She would just go on and on about you and that shop of yours.”

“She could be a talker.” I choked up. I wished people would stop being so nice. One of these times I would start crying. I bit my bottom lip, changing the subject. “So, you visited her? I'm sorry, Sadie. Miss Emily didn't mention you.”

Sadie laughed, and the sound chimed over the connection like bells.

“That doesn't surprise me. She could be a little hesitant about anything that had to do with the church. Both Pastor and I visited frequently, especially lately. She seemed to have a lot on her mind. We talked a lot about you, the house, and even her son, Bob.”

“Did she ever mention her nephew, George? I was surprised to see him at the will reading.”

“He and that wife of his came by last month during one of my visits. I swear they had measuring tapes in their brains, looking at the room. You could tell they were planning a renovation when the house became theirs. I bet they blew a gasket when she left everything to you.”

“You could say that.” I pushed the conversation further. “Did you ever meet Bob?”

“Bob had already passed by the time I started visiting Miss Emily ten years ago. I think she said he was killed in Vietnam. That entire time seemed such a tragic waste of a war.”

“I didn't know when he died.” I wrote down
Vietnam-era veteran
next to Bob's name. Maybe he had friends who knew about how he died. Probably a long shot since it had been so many years, but what if he had left behind someone? I drew a box around Bob's name and a question mark. “Is he buried in Bakerstown?”

“Oh, dear, his body was never recovered. Miss Emily told me she had nightmares that he'd been left to die in some rice field during the evacuation. She had to fight the government to get his benefits.”

I peered over at the framed military picture of what must have been Bob hanging on Miss Emily's living room wall. His green eyes smiled out at me.

I told Sadie that I'd meet her at the church tomorrow just before the service started.

“Well, don't be late, you won't be able to find a seat. I hear most of the town is planning on coming out. Probably hoping for a catfight between you and the nephew's wife. She's been spouting out all over town what a fraud you are and that they are thinking about taking you to court to overturn the will.”

“Me, a fraud?” I couldn't believe the witch.

“Don't worry, the town's on your side. Those two are just sucking on sour apples. Jimmy Marcum wouldn't allow them to contest the will. I hear they tried to focus the murder investigation your way, too, but dear Greg just laughed at them.” I heard her muffled talking to someone next to her. “I've got to go, dear, there's a problem in the kitchen. I'm looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.”

And with that, the line went dead. So Jack Sprat and his wife were spreading ill will about me in the community. Didn't they realize I owned a business, and if they cost me business, I could sue them?

The phone rang again. “Yes?” I spat out when I answered, still angry about the Joneses.

“Hey, hon, it's Aunt Jackie. I'm at the store and realized that you could open up a huge section of additional seating if you just took out the bookcases.”

What? She wanted to redecorate the store?

“Well, the point of the bookcases is to give it a library feel, you know, where people can come and drink coffee, read, and buy books?” I didn't understand why I had to explain my concept to my aunt. Wasn't she supposed to be working for me?

“And you should take advantage of the sidewalk area and set up some tables and umbrellas. You'd get a lot more walk-by traffic that way.”

Great idea. I'd already filed my zoning permit with the city last month to allow me to open the outdoor café area.

“Aunt Jackie, I'm already working on that. But thanks.” The background sounded quiet. “So, the store sounds quiet. Fewer customers today?”

“Actually, no, there are a ton of customers, but I'm upstairs in the apartment working on the books.”

Panic hit me. “Who's in the shop?”

“I hired a nice young man who came in yesterday looking for a part-time job. I think he said his name was Toby.”

“You think? You didn't get an application or look at his criminal history? Or anything?”

“Relax. He's one of South Cove's finest, a part-time police officer. He's just looking for a little extra money.”

To be honest, so was I. How would I pay for another part-time employee? “I'm not sure I have money in the budget for staffing.”

“Oh, don't worry about that. I'm going over the books right now. I think if we stop running the bookstore section, which is losing money, by the way, and just focus on the coffee and pastries, we'll be fine.”

“We'll be fine?” The agitation made my voice tight, and I could feel my throat straining when I talked.

“You did call me up here for help, now, didn't you?” I heard the frustration in my aunt's voice.

“Help, yes. Take over, no.” Yelling at my aunt wasn't solving anything. I took a deep breath. “Listen, could we talk about this later? Just don't hire anyone else or start tearing up the shop until we do, okay?”

“Sure.” The line went dead.

I stared at the phone. My life was falling apart around me. My friend had been murdered. I had to get the house cleaned. I'd scheduled an antiques dealer to come by Saturday to look over Miss Emily's things. And my aunt had already started messing with my shop. Last week I read a mystery. Today I lived one.

Flipping open the to-do list lying on the kitchen table, I knew where to start. Back to basics. Step one, when you are totally overwhelmed, eat the elephant in small chunks. I pulled out the phone book and called a landscaping service. For an outrageous fee, they were willing to come to South Cove and clean up the yard. They would even give me a price on a weekly service and a recommended services list. And they could come on Friday. I gave them my credit card number to pay for the first visit and scratched
mow lawn
off my list. I felt better already.

Chimes that sounded like an old grandfather clock rang through the house. I had never heard the doorbell before. I walked to the front door, still listening to the lovely tune. When I opened the door, a blond Greek god dressed in Dockers and a white polo shirt stood on my porch.

“Jill Gardner?”

“Yes.” Hello, papa. The man was divine. My day was starting to look up.

He handed me an envelope. “You've been served.”

He turned and stepped through the grass with the grace of a gazelle in a minefield. I hoped he'd trip and fall. Maybe even rip a hole in those pressed Dockers or at least get a grass stain. But no, he maneuvered out of the front yard without incident and back into his shiny red Prius.

“Never trust a man who drives a Prius,” I said to the empty porch.

I sat down in one of the white rockers and opened the letter from a law office in San Francisco, the same one that was on the letter Amy and I had found in Miss Emily's files. Scanning the legal document, I found as the proud owner of Miss Emily's house, the city had sent me the correct-or-condemn letter. I had a list of offenses that the house had committed, including the yard maintenance, the fence, the peeling paint, the garage door that barely closed and had several sections missing, and lack of historically appropriate landscaping. I could feel my savings account dwindling just by reading the letter. I had thirty days to make the repairs. Or else.

I took the papers back into the house and called Amy again. She should be back in town by now. No answer on her cell. So I called her office number. “City of South Cove, Bambi speaking. How may I help you?”

“Bambi? What are you doing at Amy's number?”

“I'm filling in for her. Isn't it exciting? She's gone for a few days, and Precious and I get to answer the phones.” Bambi stopped talking for a minute. “Hey, how did you know my name?”

“You said your name when you answered the phone. And this is Jill, Jill Gardner from Coffee, Books, and More, the coffee shop?”

“Jill, so nice to hear from you.” Her greeting turned into honey like we were long-lost friends. “I adore your aunt, by the way. She's so funny.”

Yeah, in a soul-crushing, sarcastic kind of way. I decided to leave that statement alone.

“Do you know where Amy went?”