A Candidate For Murder (Old Maids of Mercer Island Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

Every guest room at the St. Claire Inn was full – unusual for this time of year, especially with the bad weather. If you had asked me two months ago if I thought murder would be good for business, I would have said no. I would have been wrong.

Since Martha had been poisoned in my dining room back in December, we’d barely had time to turn rooms before the next guests arrived. The Inn was booked solid six months out. Of course, it wasn’t so much because Martha had died, but because my friends and I had helped to solve her murder, thus bringing lots of positive attention to the Inn.

Of course, the ghosts didn’t hurt, either. Not only had we been featured on Jason Spear’s paranormal investigation show the year before, we had also been listed in the latest version of his book,
The Most Haunted Hotels in the Northwest.
In fact, he had a book signing scheduled at the Inn the next weekend.

The second Monday of the month was my scheduled meeting with our accountant, Mr. Mulford. And while I waited anxiously for David to call as promised, I had to take care of business.

Mr. Mulford was a mousy little man who wore suits a size too large and shirts that had yellowed at the collar. He often smelled like the Italian restaurant next door to his office, and sometimes arrived with a box of cannoli, which of course, I couldn’t refuse. But he was a whiz with numbers and never failed to produce a good financial statement.

My job at these meetings was to hand over receipts for all purchases during the month coded by expense sub-account, along with deposit slips and copies of checks. This could get complicated since both the bakery and the sale of antiques were considered part of the same business.

Mr. Mulford had arrived promptly at 8:30 that morning and was spread out on one of the tables in the breakfast room, his handy little calculator by his side.

“There seems to be a variance in the food budget in January,” he said in his nasal voice. “Specifically, you purchased larger than usual quantities of sugar and cocoa.”

He looked at me over the top of his glasses, his bushy brows clenched together like dueling caterpillars. I circled around the table to look over his shoulder. Mickey and Minnie, my two miniature Dachshunds, followed me and stopped to sniff his ankles – no doubt wondering where he’d hidden the spaghetti and meatballs.

“Oh, that,” I said. I pulled out a receipt. “As you’ll see, we not only bought a bunch of sugar and cocoa, we also bought a case of butter. We had to throw out our entire inventory of fudge in December and replace it,” I said matter-of-factly.

His face betrayed his confusion.

“Martha’s murder?” I prompted him. “You heard all about that, didn’t you?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Applegate. Martha who?”

“Denton. She was a close friend. She died after eating some of the fudge we sell.” His eyes popped open, forcing his glasses to slip down his nose. “No, no,” I said quickly. “It wasn’t our fudge that killed her. Well…technically it was, but someone else had poisoned it.” If I thought my clarification would make things better, it didn’t. His eyes grew bigger. “Like I said, she was murdered. We found the killer, but we had to get rid of all the fudge. No one would buy it. We don’t even sell that flavor anymore. April developed a completely new recipe – raspberry mint chocolate chip. Would you like a sample?” I asked brightly, hoping to elevate the declining mood.

“No…no thank you. I’ll just move on,” he said, turning back to the spreadsheet.

“Speaking of Martha’s murder, we’ll also have a variance in our equipment budget,” I said. “We installed a new alarm system last month. Unfortunately, it’s on the fritz. So we may have a repair bill next month.”

He gave me a curious look. “If it’s brand new, shouldn’t it be under warranty?”

“Yes. But they had to order a new keypad, and it won’t be fixed until tomorrow.”

I smiled sweetly and led the dogs across the hallway to the living room, leaving Mr. Mulford to his figures.

Since selling antiques was part of the business, I spent much of my time arranging and rearranging the antique furniture and collectibles at the Inn. Almost everything visible was for sale, and we often sold several pieces a day. This required me to bring over new items from our warehouse on a regular basis.

My maintenance man, Jose´, had placed a polished oak library table under the living room window. A collection of old clocks sat in boxes on the floor in front of it. I began unwrapping the clocks and arranging them on the table, but kept checking my watch because the girls in my book club were due to arrive at 10:00 a.m. I hoped to give them a full report on the dead body from the night before. Unfortunately, I was beginning to doubt I would hear from David in time.

I adjusted one of the steeple clocks, angling it toward the light, and then moved a lovely porcelain chiming clock onto a small wooden crate to give it more prominence. Then I stood back to admire my handiwork.

A noise made me glance out the paned living room window toward Ellen Fairchild’s home across the street. Ellen had died ten months earlier when she drove her Lexus off a road at the top of the island. Her husband, Ray, put the house up for sale just before Christmas. The home had sold quickly, and now there was a moving van parked in the driveway. I watched two burly men carry a high-end leather sofa through the front door.

I had new neighbors.

A wave of sadness washed over me as I was reminded of the loss of my friend, Ellen. As I stared off into space, a big black Mercedes pulled down my driveway, catching my attention.

It was Doe, the first of my book club to arrive.

Today, the girls weren’t coming to discuss books, but rather my campaign for Mayor of Mercer Island. I sighed heavily at the thought. I didn’t really relish the idea of campaigning for political office. But the girls had talked me into it, since the only other viable candidate was Dana Finkle, a woman we all despised. However, now I had another potential murder on my mind, which was far more enticing than a political campaign.

I met Doe at the front door. The rain from the night before had stopped, but it was still bitterly cold and icicles spiraled down from the gingerbread cutouts that lined the porch overhang. Doe swept in, prompting the dogs to scamper around her feet, asking for attention.

“Why couldn’t I be a few inches taller?” I said, eying her tall, slender figure. “You always look so elegant.”

At 5’ 2” and fifteen pounds overweight, I could hardly be described as elegant – pretty, perhaps, but not elegant.

Doe gracefully bent down to pet the dogs. “Being tall has its downsides. My first boyfriend was about your height. Believe me, it was awkward when…well, you know.”

I exploded in laughter. “Thanks for that.”

She straightened up and flashed me a smile. “You know, even though I’m pushing sixty-five, the first thing I do when I get home at night is to shed these work clothes and climb into my sweat pants.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Yes, but I’ve seen you in sweat pants. I think you iron them.” I drew her into the entryway and closed the door, shivering. “What meeting are you missing today by being here?”

“I only went in this morning for a couple of personnel reviews. I have to see my investment advisor this afternoon.”

“Aren’t you ever going to retire?” I chided, watching her strip off her wool coat to reveal her signature black pant suit and a robin’s egg blue silk blouse, which perfectly accented her salt and pepper hair. “It seems to me that you’ve earned a rest by now.”

I took her coat and hung it on a nearby coat tree and then led her down the hallway and into the dining room. Since we were only a bed and breakfast, the guests had their one meal of the day in the breakfast room. This left the dining room available for meetings.

The dining room was large, with a table that seated twelve overlooking the lake. We’d gone for elegance when decorating the dining room in rich red and gold drapes. A dark oak wainscoting and paneling ran the lower perimeter of the room, while a deep green floral wall paper flecked with gold stretched to the ceiling. Antique sideboards filled with vintage china sat at each end of the room. The pocket door gave us complete privacy.

“No retirement for me just yet,” Doe was saying as she followed me into the room. “I’m not like you, Julia. I don’t have a hobby or another skill I could turn into a business. I’m committed to garbage,” she said, flashing her dark eyes at me with a broad smile.

Doe ran her deceased husband’s waste management company, the company they had built together right out of college. She always carried an enormous black leather satchel, which she dropped with a thud next to one of the high-backed wooden chairs.

“What do you carry in that thing, anyway?” I asked her. “I’ve always thought you could anchor a small ship with it.”

She laughed. “I take a lot of work home, so I carry my laptop and files. Plus this,” she said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a revolver.

“Whoa!” I said, stepping back. “When did you decide to carry a gun?”

“When both Ellen and Martha were murdered,” she said somberly. “I live alone, Julia. I thought maybe I needed protection. I just bought it, actually. It’s not loaded, and I don’t know how to use it, yet. But I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve signed up for classes that start next week.” She gave me serious look. “You should join me.”

“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll stick to dogs, friends, and dating a cop.”

She sighed and put the gun back. “I can’t say I feel good about it. But who knows? Maybe my new hobby will be target practice. Anyway, if it makes me feel safer and more confident, it will be worth it.”

“Actually, I was going to suggest that you travel,” I said.

She smiled. “Rudy and I are talking about a trip to Mexico this summer,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Wanna go?”

“I have to take my mother home to Illinois, remember?” I said.

“Ah, yes,” she smiled.

My mother had died the year before, and I kept her ashes in the garage, along with those of several of my past canine companions. It was a constant source of amusement for my friends.

Just then, the front door bell jingled and Rudy’s voice call out, “I hope there’s banana bread or something. I need comfort food.”

I poked my head into the hallway.

“Maybe we should meet over in the bakery,” I said to her.

She threw her deep green wool coat and plaid muffler onto the coat tree and marched down the hallway, rubbing her hands together to warm up. She suddenly stuck her nose in the air.

“Wait a minute, are you making your famous spaghetti sauce?” she said as she passed the breakfast room.

Rudy was a compact 5’ 6”, with an intense personality that was a little bit like a low-grade explosive ready to go off. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the dining room.

“No. That’s Mr. Mulford,” I said with a smile, but low enough that he couldn’t hear. “He always smells like Juno’s Italian Restaurant.”

“Darn. I thought you’d made spaghetti for lunch. By the way, Blair said she’d be a few minutes late. She’s having a new sofa delivered this morning.”

“Speaking of sofas,” I said. “I have new neighbors.” I pointed across the hallway and through the living room window to Ellen’s old house. “I saw the movers carrying in a sofa a little while ago.”

Doe got up and both women craned their necks to look.

“I passed the moving truck on the way in,” Rudy said. “Any idea who they are?”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I’ll probably walk over there this weekend though and introduce myself.”

“Well, let’s hope they’re as nice as Ellen was,” Doe said wistfully. “God, I still miss her.”

“Martha, too,” I said.

The mention of our two friends who had died within months of each other brought the conversation to a halt, and we all stood in silence for a moment.

“Okay, let’s get this meeting going,” Doe erupted. “We have a campaign to plan!”

“Wait,” I said, stopping them. “I have something to tell you first.”

Before I could say another word, the sound of tires on gravel interrupted me. We turned and glanced out the front window again. A black SUV parked by the front door, provoking a collective intake of breath from each one of us.

“Uh–oh,” Doe murmured.

The car doors opened. David and Detective Abrams emerged, and I felt a slight flutter in my chest.
Why hadn’t David just called?
This looked like an official visit.

The three of us returned to the entryway. The bell above the door jingled again as they walked in. David came in first, his badge hanging on a lanyard underneath his coat. Detective Abrams stepped in behind him, filling the doorway with his action-figure height and broad shoulders. As an ex-Army Ranger, he carried an air of unyielding confidence that most people found intimidating. They both nodded to me with grim expressions, as Detective Abrams closed the door.

These two men had been regular fixtures at the Inn after Martha died. The thought of having them both standing in my entryway could only mean one thing – something was wrong.

“Good morning, Julia,” David said quickly. “Sorry to bother you so early.”