The Plot Is Murder Page 2

  “Exactly my point. Why should Daphne waste her youth and beauty on someone who’s always here? She can have you any time she wants. A woman wants a challenge.”

  Victor laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” Penelope perched on the edge of her seat like an eagle.

  “You have such a way with words. You make love sound like a battle.”

  “It is a battle. What other challenges does a woman of Daphne’s station, breeding, and class have? She can’t go to war. She can’t work. And there are only so many cushions a well-bred lady can stand to embroider.”

  Something in her tone made Victor wonder if there was more to Penelope Marsh than he’d seen before. He looked at her as a woman, and not simply Daphne’s sister. “You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

  “What else do I have to do but think? I have no talent for sewing cushions.” Penelope’s eyes flashed. Perhaps it was the firelight or her anger but, for an instant, mousy Penelope exuded a passion that transformed her dark eyes and complexion. In that moment, Victor Carlston made a decision that would forever change his life.

  “That’s enough for one night.” I closed my laptop. It was getting late, and I had a busy day coming up, the last day of school, for the children and for me. I would leave the stable security of a regular paycheck, insurance, a pension, and the union that had dictated my life for the past twelve years to embark on a new adventure.

  Following your dreams sounded like an exciting journey, but for a widow in her mid-thirties, it was a bit scary. As a society, we were encouraged to work hard, invest for retirement, and make sound financial, practical decisions. Maybe it was my working class upbringing, or maybe it was the Midwestern work ethic. Whatever the reason, I found myself waxing nostalgic about the daily grind of teaching our nation’s youth. On the wall hung the motto from Henry Ford that Leon liked to quote,

  If You Always Do

  What You’ve Always Done,

  You Will Always Get

  What You’ve Always Got.

  I knew what I had to do. Change was scary, but if Leon’s death taught me anything, it was that life was short, sometimes too short. Tomorrow wasn’t promised. I needed to do this for Leon and for myself. I consoled myself with the knowledge I could teach nights at the community college if I truly needed money.

  I’d been very frugal with both the insurance money and the money from selling the house. In our original plan, Leon and I envisioned converting the upstairs of the bookstore into living space, which we could rent out to help pay the mortgage. Near the end, when Leon thought I needed a clean start, the idea of my living in the space took shape. The upper level of the soon-to-be bookstore was a large, open loft with beautiful oak hardwood floors, brick walls with seventeen foot ceilings, and windows stretching from floor to ceiling. The renovated 2,000-square-foot space contained a nice kitchen area, living room, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms. Track lighting and skylights made the space bright and inviting. I enjoyed the space more than I imagined I would. My new home was just right for me. There was even a detached garage at the back of the lot, which I accessed through an alley. I’d had a fence installed and created a small courtyard perfect for my dogs, Snickers and Oreo.

  I decided to turn in. I needed all of my mental and emotional strength to get through yet another change.

  Chapter 2

  I parked my Honda SUV in the staff parking lot of North Harbor High School. The message board outside the school not only proclaimed the prowess of the North Harbor Wildcats and congratulated the graduating class, but also wished me a fond farewell. It wasn’t often you got to see your name in lights. So, I reached into my purse and grabbed my cell phone to take a picture of my name scrolling across the sign and a tissue to wipe away the tears I couldn’t blink back. A quick look in the mirror showed the tear tracks were ruining my makeup, and my mascara was already gone. It was going to be a long and difficult day.

  Inside, signs from grateful students covered the walls. GOOD-BYE, MRS. WASHINGTON—WE’LL MISS YOU. My favorite was PARTING MAY BE SWEET SORROW, BUT IT STILL BITES. There was a picture of our mascot, Willie the Wildcat, taking a bite off the bottom of the sign.

  The principal was waiting for me when I walked through the door and walked me to the gymnasium. Streamers, balloons, and confetti decorated the large room and the bleachers were full with students, teachers, janitors, and secretaries. Even the cafeteria staff was there with their hairnets and smocks. Everyone stood and cheered as I entered. I got misty eyed thinking about my students. They were truly the best group of young people I’d had the pleasure of teaching. I’d miss the entire tattooed, pierced, and multicolor-haired bunch.

  The day was filled with cupcakes, cookies, punch, and gifts. Tears were shed. I would treasure the store-bought and handmade cards, notes, and letters of thanks for years to come. The principal surprised me with a beautiful first edition Rex Stout. Leon would have drooled. At the end of the day, I needed two students to help me carry my things to the car.

  I backed out of the parking lot and drove away from school. I cried like a baby.

  Pulling into my alley, I noticed several cars in the small parking lot I shared with the church next door. Technically I owned the parking lot, but when I closed on the building, I learned about the gentlemen’s agreement that had existed for close to thirty years. The previous owner permitted the church to use the lot for Sunday services, and the church paid half of the cost of plowing the snow from the lot for the winter. The agreement seemed more than fair to me. I would have allowed the church to use the lot for free, especially since I wouldn’t be open on Sunday, not initially anyway. Later, if I decided to open on Sunday, it wouldn’t be until after their service was over, so it seemed like a win-win to me.

  Struggling to carry my boxes without my student helpers, I fumbled with the door. I finally managed to adjust the boxes, opened the door, and stepped from the garage into my backyard.

  “SURPRISE!”

  Startled, I dropped my purse and all of the boxes. The sound of breaking glass told me my favorite porcelain coffee mug was now history. Family and friends packed my yard. Snickers and Oreo barked and pounced on me. A banner and streamers decorated the yard, and a large cake sat on the table.

  “What’re you all doing here?”

  In answer, my family hugged me, kissed me, and wished me well.

  My nephews Christopher and Zaq picked up my boxes and my purse and gave me a hug. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched them. The boys are identical twins. As babies it was almost impossible to tell them apart. However, now at twenty, their differences were much more prominent, not only in their facial features and mannerisms, but also in dress. Christopher tended toward a look that I would describe as preppy while Zaq was much more edgy. Both were blessed to have inherited their father’s height and metabolism. At well over six feet and slender, they were well-mannered, handsome, and intelligent. Of course I might be slightly biased.

  I guided my mom and my grandmother to a table where we could sit and talk. Two more different women were hard to imagine. My mom, Grace Hamilton, was about five feet even and one hundred pounds sopping wet. Her eyes were light and her head full of fine, soft white hair like cotton candy. While Nana Jo, aka Josephine Thomas, was about five foot ten and two hundred-fifty pounds with young and flirtatious dark eyes and a head full of thick auburn hair. My nephews inherited the best of both worlds, getting their height from their dad and Nana Jo and their slim figures from my mom. I, at five four and closer to my nana in weight than I’d ever admit publicly, inherited the worst traits of both. Short and pleasantly plump was how I described myself.

  “Were you surprised?” Mom asked.

  I kissed her check. “Definitely. How did you manage all of this?”

  “I didn’t know if we’d be able to do it, but Mama and Jenna thought we could, so . . .” Mom waved her hand with the queenly flourish that drove my sister mad. With one twirl of her hands and a shrug of
her shoulders, she implied my sister and grandmother merely brandished their magic wands and this party was the result.

  “Well, thank you all so much. This has been an incredible day.” I sat down at the picnic table laden with presents and delightful-smelling glass containers.

  Near the back door, my brother-in-law, Tony, grilled burgers, chicken, and hot dogs on a portable grill. The delicious aromas wafted their way toward me, and my stomach responded with a loud growl. Everyone within earshot laughed.

  Several hours later, the guests were gone and I was able to relax and enjoy the peace and serenity of my home. Most of the food went home with family, although I kept enough chicken to tide me over for a few meals. Pouring the last of the mango margaritas, I turned my television to the jazz music channel and walked downstairs to the bookstore.

  I was preparing to live my dream, unfortunately, without Leon. I’d quit my job, sold my house, bought a building, and was about to open an old-fashioned bookstore during a time when electronic readers were more popular than old-fashioned books. Major bookstore chains were going bankrupt, yet there I was.

  “I must be crazy,” I said to Snickers and Oreo.

  Oreo’s adoring eyes assured me he’d love me even if I was a few nibbles short of a rawhide. Snickers simply sniffed. She’d known all along I was crazy, and it didn’t matter to her as long as she continued to live in the manner to which she was accustomed.

  We used to call this the Gargoyle building when I was a kid. The builder had placed several hideous-looking gargoyles around the top of the building on the inside ceiling. I was surprised to find more of them upstairs as well. I’d even found a couple in a box in the basement when I first moved in.

  Two large bay windows, with display space, flanked the front door. I loved the thick brick walls, which the previous owner sandblasted to a lovely light shade of beige. The dark wood plank floors creaked. The lower level had the same high ceilings and exposed duct work I loved in the upper level. My realtor recommended an Amish craftsman whom he knew to build sturdy bookshelves. They weren’t fancy, but they were solid and would hold the weight of the books still piled in boxes all over the room. The back of the store had a small kitchen. The area, the only one where Leon and I had disagreed, was still unfinished. Leon wanted a traditional coffee bar with espressos and lattes. I wanted a British tea shop.

  Like many cozy mystery lovers, my introduction to mysteries was through British writers, like Agatha Christie. In books, my heroes and heroines had tea with scones and treacle tarts. It wasn’t until my first trip to London, a thirtieth birthday present from Leon, that I learned a scone wasn’t the dried-up things served at coffeehouses across the United States. I developed a love of clotted cream (a cross between whipped cream and butter) and discovered the correct way to pronounce treacle (tree-kell), which was basically molasses. High tea at Brown’s Hotel or the Ritz Carlton in London was an event to be savored, and I wanted to bring the experience to mystery lovers in North Harbor, Michigan. I decided to try a compromise. I’d serve tea and scones, along with coffee, but no espressos or lattes—at least not yet anyway.

  Beyond the coffee area, a door led into a hallway. Across the hall, another room would serve as an office. The office was small but had one redeeming feature, a glass garage door leading out to a small patio area. Initially I’d thought of making the office area the tea shop and having both indoor and outdoor seating, but the cost of moving the plumbing quickly changed my mind. Since I lived in the building, I liked the idea of a private courtyard for me and my dogs.

  Surround sound speakers in the store meant I was able to hear music both upstairs and downstairs. My bookstore was almost perfect. If only Leon was here.... It was best to not travel that path. I’d end up crying and hugging Snickers who, despite her sassy attitude, was a bigger comfort than Oreo when I was sad. Leon wasn’t there, but in what I hoped would be a matter of weeks, I would open my mystery bookstore. Standing in the back of the store, I wondered if anyone would come. Just as I decided I’d have to wait and see, a knock sounded at the front door.

  I wasn’t open for business. While Snickers and Oreo barked a lot and sounded quite formidable behind a solid door, two toy poodles were absolutely no protection. It was still fairly light outside, so I made my way to the front of the store, peeked around a bookshelf, and saw the one person I’d hoped never to see again, Clayton Parker.

  I edged my way to the door, glared at him through the glass, and pointed to the CLOSED sign.

  “I need to talk to you.” Parker pulled at the door handle.

  The thought of that man entering my store made my blood boil. I prided myself on being professional and always behaving in a ladylike manner, but I wasn’t feeling very ladylike. I stuck out my tongue.

  The blood rushed to Parker’s face. He looked as though he might explode.

  I was in control of my destiny. I had the keys and a ton of papers declaring the building belonged to me. I didn’t have to talk to anyone I didn’t want to, and I didn’t have to allow the likes of Clayton Parker in my store. Clayton Parker could talk to my lawyer if he had anything further to say to me.

  I walked, nay, strutted to the back of the store and up the stairs, and left Parker seething outside. I went to bed and slept well without a second thought of Clayton Parker. I woke up refreshed and energetic.

  Two staircases led to the upper level. On the parking lot on the side of the building, a door led to a back hallway. Visitors entering through that door would find two doors on each side of the hall. On the left, the first door opened to a small but functional bathroom. The second door on the left went to my office. The first door on the right led upstairs to my living space and the second door to the back of the store.

  My morning routine typically involved getting up, showering, and dressing while listening to the news. Snickers wasn’t a morning dog. Preferring to get eighteen to twenty hours of sleep per day, she stayed in her bed at the foot of my bed until I was dressed and ready to leave for the day, at which time she stretched and slowly made her way downstairs to take care of business. Oreo, on the other hand, was so concerned he might be left out of some important event, he jumped up every time I rolled over during the night. Like the energizer bunny, Oreo darted around the room with speed and zeal as if saying, Is it time to get up? Huh? Time to get up? His exuberance resulted in modified sleeping arrangements. While Snickers slept in a dog bed, free to come and go as she pleased, Oreo was crated at night. I tried to allow Oreo the freedom to live without the crate, but he preferred the safety of his crate, which was fine with Snickers and me.

  After sleeping in, our norm on weekends, we completed our basic morning routine and headed downstairs. Snickers and Oreo ran to the office door and then the door to the enclosed backyard, where they could sniff and run free without leashes. Their goal was to find just the right blade of grass to leave their scent on and take care of business at their leisure.

  As usual, they reached the door ahead of me. I wasn’t surprised at their barking, although the growls were unusual. Thinking a squirrel or a bird must have entered their domain, I opened the door cautiously. So far, they’d never caught any of the interlopers, but I didn’t want to take a chance. One look outside told me the source of their angst wasn’t animal.

  Well, not technically.

  In a heap on the grass near my patio lay the crumpled body of Clayton Parker.

  Chapter 3

  Amazing how a person could live in a town for almost half a century without interacting with local law enforcement.

  Despite my love of mysteries, the closest I’d come to the police were the men and women who directed game day traffic near the football stadium at the local university. I wasn’t sure what I expected. North Harbor bore no resemblance to New York or Los Angeles, with their densely populated skyscrapers and bumper to bumper traffic. Nor did North Harbor resemble the idyllic tranquility of the fictional Cabot Cove.

  Located on the shores of Lake Michiga
n, North Harbor was a small town of less than fifteen thousand people. Whether due to urban decay or other social factors, the town had seen better days. North Harbor sat on a beautiful stretch of beach that drew tourists to the neighboring towns during the summer months. In the 1950s and 1960s, North Harbor thrived. Local plants, about a hundred miles up the road from the Motor City, produced parts for the then-booming auto industry and provided high-paying jobs. Victorian homes grandly looked down upon the smaller working-class towns, like South Harbor, located on the same Lake Michigan shoreline. The two cities are separated by the St. Thomas River, which winds through the cities and flows into Lake Michigan. When the lucrative manufacturing jobs either went south or sailed across our borders, North Harbor simply withered up and died. The death was slow and lingering. First, yards were left untended. Then homes, former majestic displays of wealth and opulence, were abandoned and boarded up. Those wealthy enough to leave, did. Those who stayed fell into two distinct categories. Those idealistic enough to believe that North Harbor could be turned around, the socially minded do-gooders who stayed to fight for good schools, commerce, and a better quality of life, and those too poor to leave. When Leon and I married, we vowed to stay in North Harbor and be a part of the change we believed would surely come.

  In the police at my door, I saw the toll of economic decline and crime. The weariness and cynicism that kept these civil servants going from day to day was palpable.

  They came in surprising numbers, for a town this small. Surely every police car the city owned was parked on the street in front of my building, blocking the busy Saturday morning traffic on Main Street. They came and they photographed. Through the window, I watched as they collected every blade of grass, every gum wrapper, and everything that might in any way resemble a clue. For about five seconds, I felt bad I hadn’t scooped the dog poop or bothered to clean too vigorously after the party. The feeling vanished when one of the detectives smashed the impatiens I’d planted not two weeks before.