Guidebook to Murder (9 page)

I
made it home in record time, all ideas of stopping and leisurely looking at tubs and faucets out of my mind. I called Greg on the way, and when I pulled into the driveway, he sat on the front porch waiting for me.

“Let's go over this one more time. He mentioned Doc Ames specifically?” Sitting in the kitchen on our second pot of coffee, Greg was in full detective mode.

“He only said two sentences, I'm pretty sure I remembered all of it.” I felt edgy and annoyed. The coffee was probably to blame for my mood, but I couldn't shake the chill.

“And you're sure it was a man's voice.”

Now he was getting on my nerves. “Yes, I'm positive. Why are you still here and not pulling my phone records or something like they do on television?”

“I have Toby pulling your phone records. I'm here investigating. That's what I do. Me, not you. What were you thinking going over to that house? You could have been walking into anything, a drug lab or something, or been accused of stalking. Do you want to wind up missing like your friend?” Greg got louder as the lecture progressed. He stood and walked around the living room.

His words stung.

Was it my fault that Amy had gone missing? Did someone catch her hiding under her desk, talking to me?

“I didn't think it would be this big of a deal. I need to make sure that the baby isn't related to Miss Emily. I couldn't live with taking that money if it was supposed to go somewhere else.” I sank down deeper into the kitchen chair I'd shoved into the living room to save it from paint splatters that morning. In my defense, I added, “I asked Jimmy Marcum first before I went.”

“And he told you that the girl was a scammer and not related to Miss Emily. I've already talked to him. So you decide to go make sure? What were you thinking?” Now Greg paced from one side of the room to the other, but the kitchen table and chairs were making his progress choppy. He stopped pacing, stood in front of the table, and asked, “Why is this in the living room?”

Desperate to change the subject from my carelessness, I answered. “I painted the kitchen today. Do you want to see?”

“Sure.” Greg didn't sound like he wanted to see.

We walked into the kitchen with the new stainless steel appliances and the freshly painted walls. All I needed to do now was have someone come in and reseal the wood floors. I had spent most of last night on my knees scrubbing the floor down and had been pleased with what I had found under the grime. “I'm going to leave the cabinets alone. They need a good scrubbing, but other than that, they're in excellent shape.” I opened up a cabinet and showed him the interior. “See, lots of room.”

Now that I'd taken out the ten sets of china Miss Emily had stashed.

“This is amazing. It looks totally different.” Neither one of us acknowledged our meeting the morning I'd found Miss Emily. “I wouldn't have picked the colors, but they work. Do you want me to help you move the furniture back?”

“I can do it.” I didn't need him hanging around helping me with my decorating when he should be with his wife.

“I know you can do it. I asked if you wanted me to help.” Greg's gaze poured over my body, making me think of being closer, much closer. “You're not getting rid of me until Toby calls back with the phone records, so you might as well make use of me.”

I shivered at the thought of making use of him, my mind clearly in the gutter. “You don't have anywhere you need to be?”

“Nope. Just here.”

I didn't believe him. But my shoulders ached from the scrubbing and painting earlier. A little help moving furniture wouldn't be the end of the world.

Just don't look into his eyes. Or touch him
.

Two hours later, we sat on the back porch, sipping a cold beer. The kitchen was back in commission, and the first floor bedroom had been stripped of furniture and carpet and was ready to paint. If I could keep Toby from calling for a few days, Greg and I'd have the inside of the house done by the end of the week.

“I'm going to set the room up as my home office. At the apartment, I had work stuff all over the place.” I took another drink from the longneck bottle. “This way, I can just close the door on my clutter.”

“Does the shop keep you busy?” Greg sat on one of Miss Emily's rockers on the other side of the porch. I could barely see him. The darkness crept from the lawn to the porch except for the light from the kitchen shining through the screen door.

“Between the shop and my consulting job for the city, I'm pretty busy. Or at least until Aunt Jackie showed up. Now I'm stuck in remodeling hell and she gets to sit around and redesign my shop.” Ouch, that came out a little harsh. I backpedaled. “It's not that I don't appreciate her help.”

“It's just hard to see what you've worked for being changed without your input.” Greg finished my sentence. “Toby told me a little about what's happening in the shop. You do know your aunt hired him, right?”

I sighed, bone-tired from the moving. I knew much more lay ahead of me before I could even start to take the shop back from Aunt Jackie. “Yeah, she told me. See, that's the thing. She told me. She didn't ask me. She just read over the books and hired someone. Then she tells me I should get rid of the bookcases and stop selling books because it takes up too much room.”

“But isn't that part of the theme? You get to have your coffee and pick out a good book, too?” Greg's voice sounded deep and comforting from across the dark porch.

“See, you get it. I don't think she does. It's not her shop, for God's sake.” I hadn't had anyone to vent to since Amy disappeared. Too bad the sexy lawman sitting in the dark on my back porch was already spoken for; otherwise, we wouldn't be on the porch right now. “Shouldn't you be going home?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No, I mean, I'm fine if you need to leave.” I stumbled over my words. His leaving was the last thing my body wanted. But my head had to stay in control.

“Someone threatens your life today, and you're fine? You must live a more interesting life than I thought.” Greg stopped rocking and stood. “You ready for another one?”

“I guess,” I said, hesitantly.

“You might as well relax a little. I don't think anything's going to happen tonight. Or it would have already happened.” Greg took the bottle I had been playing with for the last ten minutes from my hand. “You need to set up a cooler out here so we don't let the bugs in your house at night getting another beer.”

The screen door banged shut behind him.

I needed to set up a cooler? Would we be drinking beer on my porch another time?

My mind raced. Maybe they were separated—divorced, even. Maybe I misunderstood his brother. This was stupid. I needed to ask him, to clear the air. I refused to be the other woman. I'd seen how that game worked out and I didn't need a broken heart.

I watched a firefly dance down by the shed where I found the paintings. Even at that distance, the bug put off a lot of light. It must be huge! I'd loved watching fireflies when we visited Grams at her home down by the Missouri River. They made me laugh just watching them. But tonight I wasn't laughing. Something nagged at me. Greg? Nah, that resembled a raging war inside my head. Something else.

“What has you so deep in thought?” Greg handed me the new bottle, cold from the refrigerator. He offered me an open bag. “I found a bag of pretzels to go with the beer. I hope you don't mind.”

“I'm watching the firefly down by the creek.”

“You're what?” Greg's voice had gone tight, his cop voice. I turned to look up at him.

“The firefly down by the old shed where I found the paintings.”

Greg put his beer down. “Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yeah, right inside the door in that top cabinet. Why?”

“California doesn't have fireflies.” Greg went back inside to get the flashlight. When he came out, he turned the light on to check it. “Go inside and lock the doors. I'll be right back.”

I stayed frozen on the porch step. “Do you think someone's there?”

“We'll talk after I check it out.” Greg started across the lawn. “And get your cell phone, just in case.”

I hurried into the house.

Locking the back door, I ran upstairs to my room to grab my purse and the cell phone. On the way back to the kitchen, I checked the front door and double-locked it, too. Then I stood guard at the back door. Glancing out the window, I tried to see Greg or his flashlight. Nothing. I took a swig of the beer he'd just brought me and considered chugging the entire bottle to quiet my nerves.

Changing my mind, I went over and started a pot of coffee. I wanted to be sharp just in case I needed to drive or run or . . .
Or what, Jill? You're building this into something it's probably not. Calm down.

That's easy for you to say.
I pushed back at my calming voice, tired of arguing with myself.

I sat down at the table and viewed the dark backyard, my garage light only covering half of the grassy area. No Greg. I checked the time on my cell. Five minutes had passed. Seriously? It seemed like an hour since he'd left the porch. I grabbed one of my decorating magazines and started flipping the pages.

I didn't want to call the police too soon and embarrass Greg. Besides, Toby would probably be on call and then he'd tell Aunt Jackie and then I'd get the third degree about my non-relationship with the hunk running around my backyard, looking for trouble and nonexistent fireflies.

I heard steps on the wooden porch. Looking out the window, I saw Greg standing there waiting. I unlocked the door and waited for him to come in the house. “What? Was it a prowler? Was someone in the shed?”

He put the flashlight back in the cabinet by the door. Then he sat down at the table. “I'll take a cup of that coffee.”

I pulled out a cup and poured. “Black, right?”

“That's fine.” Greg wasn't talking.

I gave him his coffee and sat in the chair next to him.

“Thanks.”

“What was out there?” I tapped my fingernail on the table. “Tell me.”

“Probably kids.” Greg hesitated. “You need to get a lock for that shed. I saw beer bottles piled up and a blanket. Miss Emily always turned in early, so they could be used to using the shed for extracurricular activities.”

That sounded logical, but it just didn't ring true. “You think teenagers were looking for a secluded place?”

Greg glanced at me over his coffee cup. “Or someone's watching you. I found a set of binoculars in the shed, too. Which story will let you sleep better at night?”

“I'll get a lock for the shed tomorrow.” So much for our peaceful night sitting on the porch getting to know each other. Of course we shouldn't be sitting on the porch, together, alone. Married guy, remember? My willpower was weakening.

Greg checked his cell for the time. “It's after ten. I guess they didn't get the phone records yet from your stalker call.”

“If you need to go, I understand.”

Greg glanced at me, puzzled. “Is my company that disturbing?”

“Huh? No, I love, I mean, I'm having fun, in a creepy Halloween sort of way.”

“Then why are you trying to get rid of me?” At that moment, his cell rang. “I've got to take this.” He walked into the living room.

Because you're married,
I called out to him on the inside. I pulled out a blueberry coffee cake someone had dropped off and cut several slices. I'd just polished off my second slice when Greg walked back in the room. He grabbed a piece and sat down.

“Sarah Jenkins makes the best coffee cake in town.” He popped the rest of the piece into his mouth. He seemed to inhale the food. “Toby called. The phone records came back, finally. We traced where the threat call originated.”

God, this man loved his drama. “Are you going to tell me?”

The look he gave me when he put his cup down seemed to be mixed with determination and fear. “The call came from one of the extensions at City Hall.”

G
reg stayed long past midnight, and after splitting two pots of coffee, I didn't get to sleep for a couple of hours after he left. I checked the locks on the doors and windows three times before, exhausted, I put a chair up against my bedroom door and fell into a fitful sleep. My mind kept going over the recent events. Miss Emily's death, Amy's disappearance, the funeral, my inheritance, the angry nephew, the mayor and his threats, it all kept rolling around, mixing together and not making any sense. Amy sat on a bench crying. I tried to get to her, but piles of roof shingles and siding were blocking my path. I could see her, but I had no way to reach her. I started climbing over the piles when my cell phone went off. I woke up in bed covered with sweat and Amy's cries for help still ringing in my ears.

I had to go to Amy's apartment. I had to find some clue to where she had gone. The thought that the apartment might be considered a crime scene and somehow off-limits crossed my mind for two point five seconds. Shrugging it off, I dismissed the thought. As much as I liked Greg, he wasn't taking her disappearance seriously. He thought she was surfing with some unnamed guy somewhere.

I drew the covers back over my head and prayed for strength. That man was fine. Last night talking and laughing had been comfortable, easy. Not like my relationships with any of the losers I had dated since my divorce. Cute, almost ruggedly handsome, he had weight lifter arms, proof he definitely worked out. I dreamily thought about his chest—did he have six-pack abs? Just the kind of man I wanted in my life.

At least he would be if he wasn't married
—my conscience chimed in.

“Arrgghh.” I threw the comforter off my bed, swinging my feet to the floor. Pulling on my remodeling uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, I headed downstairs to make a list of things that I had to get done today. The sooner I got settled here and found Amy, the sooner I could get Aunt Jackie out of my coffee shop and back to San Francisco where she belonged.

Grabbing the last pieces of the blueberry coffee cake and a cup of coffee, I pulled out my notebook with my ever-growing to-do list and list of suspects. I added
Visit Amy's apartment
to the list. She'd been gone too long for this to be just an impromptu surfing trip. She would have checked in with the mayor if she was delayed, not ask someone else to call for her. If she wasn't at her desk at nine, I would start my own search for her.

Hammering started outside. I wasn't sure if the source was the men replacing my roof, the siding, or the fence. I must have had half the town working on the house. At least now, with the money Miss Emily left me, I could pay the men standing in my driveway. I added
Buy a lock for the shed
to the list. My office would just have to wait to be painted.

Today I had to figure out if Amy was kidnapped, dead, or just surfing. I hoped it was surfing. Some detective I'd turned out to be. The who-done-its just kept piling up around me. I hadn't added anything to Greg's search except for the bull's-eye on my own back. Shivering, I remembered the call from yesterday.

Why did someone want me out of the house? The development. Maybe Bambi let Eric use the phone while she filled in for Amy. A thought burst into my mind . . . and maybe that was why Amy disappeared . . . to give Bambi access to the city building so Eric could use the phone to threaten me . . .

Okay, that sounded stupid, even to me. I could just hear Greg's voice challenging the theory.

“So, why wouldn't they just buy a prepaid cell and dump it after the call?” imaginary Greg asked.

The doorbell rang before I had the chance to think up an answer. I spent way too much time alone, having conversations with people who weren't there.

Aunt Jackie stood on my porch with a basket of muffins and a carafe of what smelled like my best chocolate coffee blend.

“Peace offering,” she said, walking past me into the house. She stopped at the living room crowded with the furniture Greg and I had pulled out of Miss Emily's bedroom—my future office—yesterday. “I like what you've done with the place, kind of Salvation Army meets Home Heaven.”

“It's a work in progress. Let's go back to the kitchen. You'll find it a little more pulled together.” I headed to the back of the house, clearing a path through the piles for Jackie to follow. “What are you doing up so early? I thought you'd be taking it easy today.”

Aunt Jackie laughed. “I'll sleep when I'm dead.” She set the basket down on the table, then, viewing my stricken face, added, “Sorry, wrong choice of words. But, dear, I don't need a lot of sleep.”

She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the new paint and appliances. “You've done a great job in here. I can't believe how much you've accomplished in the last week.”

“Not having to run the shop has been a lifesaver.” I hated to admit it, but it was true. And working on the house kept me from losing my mind over worry about Amy, let alone my new stalker.

She walked up to the landscape that Greg and I had hung on the kitchen wall. “This is good. I mean, really good.” She studied the painting. “Did you buy it in San Francisco?”

I chuckled. “No, my gallery's a little closer.” I handed Aunt Jackie a cup of the coffee she had brought, the chocolate smell filling the kitchen. “You think it's good?”

“It is. In fact, I'm sure I've seen this artist at one of the city galleries. They billed her as a new local talent. I almost bought one of the pieces, but I was leaving for a cruise and the gallery couldn't hold it for delivery.” Aunt Jackie went back to the table and sat down. “I didn't come to talk about art, though.”

I stood staring at the painting, wondering if another painter could have copied Miss Emily's style or if more of Miss Emily's paintings were sitting at some gallery. Maybe this was the reason someone had been snooping around the shed last night. Unless Miss Emily had consigned the art to the gallery herself. No need bothering Greg yet—I'd call the gallery myself and check. If I knew the gallery's name. I stopped Aunt Jackie before she could go on to another subject. “Do you remember which gallery it was?”

“I probably have the owner's card in my purse somewhere. I meant to buy a piece once I got back in town, then you called and I wound up here.” Aunt Jackie rested the back of her hand on my forehead. “Are you all right? You look a little flushed.”

“I've been busy.” I sank into the chair next to her and pushed her purse within her reach. “Could you check now? It's important.”

Aunt Jackie started digging into her purse. “I don't understand why this is so important. Obviously the artist is selling her stuff to a local dealer here as well as San Francisco. Most artists don't give exclusive rights to galleries.” Her voice muddled coming from the large Coach bag. She sighed and pushed the purse away.

“What?”

“It's not in here. I bought this bag on the cruise, so the card would have been in my other bag back at home.” Jackie reached for a muffin. “I think I remember the artist's name, though it didn't match the signature at all.”

“Who was the artist?”

Aunt Jackie reached for a plate from the cupboard so I couldn't see her face when she answered. “The signature appeared to be an
E
-something.” She pointed over to my painting. “See, just like that. Large curvy
E
and then smaller letters.”

“How did you know the artist's name was different?” I sat on the edge of my seat.

Jackie came back to the table and handed me a plate with half a blueberry muffin. “It's on the tip of my tongue. Of course, the signature didn't look like the name at all, but the gallery owner assured me that a lot of artists use a different name to sign their work. Didn't make sense to me, though.”

Questions filled my mind. Had someone else been selling Miss Emily's paintings? If so, was it with or without her knowledge? Could it be the same someone who wanted me out of the house? I felt hopeful for the first time in days. I pushed the question, again, “So, do you think you could remember which gallery it was?”

“I'm not senile. Of course I can remember the gallery.” Aunt Jackie took a bite of her muffin. “One of the new ones over on Market Street. Why are you so interested in another painting? The one you have is perfect for this room.”

“Miss Emily did the painting. And maybe whoever's been selling the paintings killed her for them. Maybe she found out.” My logic wasn't even convincing me.

“Someone could have been selling the paintings for Miss Emily. You never know, dear. This could all be a misunderstanding.”

“Then why wouldn't they tell the gallery owner that she was the artist?”

The room went silent. Then Aunt Jackie spoke up. “Grab your laptop, and let's see if we can find the gallery. I know I'll remember the name as soon as I see it.”

I grabbed the laptop off the counter and powered it up. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me yet. I haven't told you the gallery name.”

But my aunt had given me another reason why someone might want Miss Emily dead. Maybe she'd caught the thief stealing paintings from the shed? And that was motive—if it panned out, Greg would have to investigate. I could stop fingers being pointed at me if we could find out who had been selling the paintings. It was a long shot, but right now, it was the only lead I had. I signed on to Google and keyed in
Market Street Art Galleries
. A list of ten pages filled the screen. Why so many? I was sure I must have done the search wrong, but then I saw the link to the article “Art's New Mecca—Market Street Galleries Revive Neighborhood.”

It was going to be a long morning.

 

Three hours later Jackie stood and brushed muffin crumbs off her lap onto my just-swept floor. Buying a Swiffer went on my mental to-do list.

“I can't believe there are so many galleries in that little stretch of town.”

“Me, either,” I groaned. This detecting stuff seemed a lot easier on the television shows I loved to watch. They would have found the body, the murderer, and had their trial all within an hour. I was still trying to find the name of the gallery selling Miss Emily's art. Maybe I should tell Greg. He already knew that someone had been in my shed. “I guess we should just give in for the day.”

My aunt stared out the kitchen window, her eyes wide.

Was my prowler becoming more daring? Or was my caller showing up to do the deed? When did my life start including the bad guys I read about in my mystery novels? Jumping up, I grabbed my cell phone just in case and ran to her side. She put her hand up to slow me down. I flipped open the phone, dialed 911, and put my finger on the SEND button. Then I looked out the window.

Three deer grazed in my backyard. The male had a rack of antlers. A doe and a younger fawn walked close by. I closed my phone and let the adrenaline flow out of my body. Time to get a grip. Now I jumped at wildlife. As we were watching, my doorbell rang. The buck lifted his head at the sound and bounded out of the yard, toward the back shed. The others followed.

I headed to the door, Jackie following me like the doe had followed the buck.

I unlocked the dead bolt and swung open the door.

“What, you don't check to see who's out here before you open the door? I could have been your mystery stalker, sheesh.” Greg leaned against the doorway, a new padlock in his hand. “I stopped by the hardware store this morning and bought you a present.”

“You didn't need to do that. I had it on my list to do today, I just got sidetracked.”

I felt hot. Looking in his eyes, all I could think of was how he'd kissed me in my dreams last night. His lips parting mine . . .

Aunt Jackie stepped out from behind me, breaking the lightning that must have been shooting out of my body toward Greg. “Detective King! I was just telling Jill what a pleasure your Toby is to work with. He's such a nice boy.”

“Well, I've never heard him called a ‘nice boy' before, but I'm glad he's working out for you. Toby needed a hobby.” Greg's glance stayed locked with mine. “I didn't realize you had company. I can come back later.”

My stomach did a backflip. Oh my God—had he realized what I'd been thinking about? I broke eye contact first. “No, come in. I need you to hear something.”

He handed me the padlock. “And can I install the lock? I'd feel better if I knew it wasn't just sitting on your kitchen counter tonight.”

Jackie poured Greg a cup of coffee and told him her story of seeing a similar painting in the city. I showed him the list of galleries we had been reviewing to jog Jackie's memory. Greg stayed quiet while we talked, sipping on his coffee. After we had finished, Greg stood up, stretched, and walked over to the landscape he had helped hang yesterday.

“Well, this could explain your prowler.” He stared at the painting. “I don't get why the thief would take such chances on a few paintings. They can't be worth much.”

“Now there's where you're wrong. A local artist can bring in the low thousands for originals, especially if the gallery is smart at promotion,” Aunt Jackie responded to Greg's comment. “The art isn't just something to use in decorating your home, it's marketed as an investment. That's the hook that the gallery used to try to sell me, a new up-and-coming artist whose work hadn't been discovered yet.”

“Well, that's true, most of Miss Emily's paintings are still under tarps in the shed.” I patted my aunt's hand. “And if you hadn't been tempted to buy a painting, we wouldn't have known that someone had been stealing them in the first place.”