Murder in the Graveyard, page 2
What she could remember of the body had been a bloody patch of hair on the back of his skull. After the blow, he’d fallen forward, his body’s flight aided by the weight of the stack of stolen books in his pack. He’d fallen into one of the more ornate headstones where his skull had taken another blow. It was the headstone of Wilkie Cotter, one of the original pastors, probably a very law-and-order, fire-and-brimstone type. Riley imagined the Very Reverend Mr. Cotter would’ve been happy to play his part if the book thief’s fifty was fake, and he had indeed bilked the church.
The body, long and lanky, was splayed just off the path … dark jeans, flannel shirt … she jogged her memory, but the body’d been face down and despite Gerri’s urging, she hadn’t touched anything beyond making sure he was dead. She knew better. The Faux Lumberjack had had a quick demise. His body had evidently tumbled forward directly into the headstone face down, the head hitting at a terribly unnatural angle. It was easy to see that the cause of his fall hadn’t been an accident. There was blood on the spade corresponding to the bloody blow on the back of his head.
The one thing she was sure of? Riley shook her head. She couldn’t imagine anyone else had lain in wait for the man outside in the graveyard on this frigid night. But the girlfriend … Meg. She had clearly been in an overwrought emotional state. Riley didn’t remember the girl wearing gloves … she imagined there were prints on the handle of the spade. Where was she now?
Flo entered, holding a tray of coffee cake and coffees. “I thought I’d see if the officers would like some warm drinks,” she said.
Gerri’s eyebrows flew up. “Excellent idea, my dear, let’s go. Riley, you stay here. We all know Jack knows you’re on the case and doesn’t want you inter—” She stopped short.
Gerri blushed, but Riley laughed. “I know, he doesn’t want me interfering.”
Flo said, “We’ll be right back.”
Because several of the officers on the town force were former students, Gerri and Flo soon got some information. The Faux Lumberjack’s name was Kayden Vandersloot, a resident of New York, and he was wanted in several New England states, New York, and New Jersey for stealing and selling rare books.
“One of the cops had the nerve to call stealing rare books a victimless crime,” Gerri huffed.
Vandersloot’s girlfriend, Meg, however, was a mystery.
“They had to get here somehow,” Riley said. “Some of the houses on the lane probably have security cameras. What about their vehicle?” Riley moved closer to the window, hoping to catch the squawk of a radio issuing an APB on Vandersloot’s car.
The thin tenor of Brady Thompson’s voice announced his arrival before he stepped into the office.
“Well, can you believe it, that guy fell down the stairs, and folks are whispering about a murder? Hey, what’s that joke? There’s a dead body in the graveyard?” Brady chuckled.
The women rolled their eyes and groaned. Gerri said, “This is hardly a laughing matter. The police took the bill that guy gave you for fingerprints and are testing it to see if it’s real.” Riley decided to keep the information Jack had given her to herself. Brady was already in Gerri’s crosshairs.
Riley tuned out Brady as he rehashed his role in the evening’s drama and tried to focus on the cops outside, until he repeated something he’d said earlier. And she remembered something she’d seen—Meg receiving a text message before she stormed out of the book sale. Two puzzle pieces clicked. “Brady, you said you and the guy chatted about the Joshua Penniman House?”
“Well, he seemed interested in old books, of course he was at my table, right? Well, when he asked about the house’s hours I told him and also told him how our Joshua had been a lawyer and how his wife, you remember her, Elizabeth Penniman, that she had been instrumental in teaching so many women and even enslaved persons to read back then. How the Pennimans had quite a collection of books for the time. You know not many people at that time had books, just a family Bible really, if they were wealthy enough to even have that, but Joshua had a fine collection he brought over with him from England—”
Riley held up a hand to stop Brady’s babbling. She turned to Gerri and Flo. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Brady gave her a puzzled look. Gerri ushered him out of the room, saying, “You should talk to the nice police officer and tell him what you told us.”
She rushed back in and grabbed her coat from the coat rack. Riley and Flo already had theirs on. “We’re thinking the same thing if you’re thinking that we should get over to the Joshua Penniman house ASAP.”
The three women ran out the front door of the church and down the broad columned steps overlooking the town green, quiet now except for diners at the popular Lily’s.
The women dashed to Gerri’s Cadillac, passing Riley’s bike locked in the bike rack. Gerri gunned the car from the parking lot before Riley even had her door closed.
“I see the connection,” Flo said, “but why would she go there now?”
“I know it’s tenuous, but it’s a connection., Riley mused. “I think that was the plan from the beginning. Kayden Vandersloot was a knowledgeable thief of rare books. He’d come over here and make sure that nobody was at the Penniman House, get the lay of the land, and steal the valuable books there. The books that are not for sale.”
“The really rare stuff,” Gerri said.
The car flew into a quiet area of antique colonial homes, part of the Penniman historic walking tour. There were only seven little cottages on the street but each was a charmer, meticulously restored by history-loving owners.
There was a dark sedan parked at the curb at an odd angle under a sign that read “Joshua Penniman House, 1765.” A black BMW. As they passed, Riley noted, “New York plates.” Gerri cut the lights as they parked in front of the white saltbox style home with small mullioned windows and a sloping roof.
The women got out of the car and closed the doors softly. Pale light flickered from the home’s front window. Standing in the dark, a soft sound met their ears. Weeping? Wailing? Two men walking their golden retriever tugged at the leash as the dog headed curiously toward the sound. As they passed by, one said loud enough for the women to hear, “I told you that place was haunted.”
Riley slid her phone from her pocket and dialed 9-1-1. “I think you should come to the Joshua Penniman house right now.”
Riley, Gerri, and Flo walked cautiously up the uneven brick walk toward the front door.
Gerri gripped Riley’s arm. “I’m pretty sure that’s candlelight.”
Flo gasped. “A candle? This old place could go up in seconds!”
“I’ll wait for the cops here and make sure the fire department’s coming.” Gerri made a chopping, parking-an-airplane motion with her hands and then a waving motion out to the side that Riley took to mean that Gerri was waiting at the front door and that she and Flo were supposed to go around the back.
“We’ll go round the back,” Riley whispered as Flo gave her sister a puzzled look. “Come on, Flo.”
Riley figured that Meg, even in an emotional state, wouldn’t have tried to break in the front door. The kitchen door, tucked away from the street, would be easier—the glass panels on it would be easy to break into, especially with the good-sized stones the landscape volunteers used to line the bed of heirloom herbs outside the kitchen door.
She and Flo crept quickly around the side of the building to the kitchen door at the end of the handicap access ramp. The storm door had been wrenched open and a pane of glass had indeed been smashed. The door was ajar. Riley pushed through and glanced down. She put on the flashlight on her phone, shining it on the glittering glass.
“Watch your step, Flo,” Riley whispered. Flo nodded, skirting the broken glass and heading toward the hall. Riley zeroed in on the sound of sobbing, sobbing so loud she was sure the girl hadn’t heard them enter.
They followed the path of candlelight on the highly polished floor of the hallway leading into a small dining room at the front of the house—a room that Riley remembered was lined with glass-fronted bookcases holding many rare colonial-era books.
A bizarre scene greeted them, made stranger and more fraught by the violence of the woman’s cries. Meg sat with her head on her arms, each sob jerking her shoulders. Before her on the table she’d stacked dozens of the volumes from the bookcases. Riley’s breath caught when she saw the single candle that teetered at the top of a pile of small volumes. The pile jerked with every movement of the woman’s heaving shoulders. One wrong move and the candle would topple and ignite the centuries old stack of dried paper beneath … and the wooden table beneath that …
Riley froze. Emergency services would be here soon, but it would be too late if the candle fell. The irreplaceable books, the house of dry old wood—the place could go up in moments.
Flo squeezed Riley’s shoulder and gave Riley a meaningful nod to the right. Riley returned the nod. Flo would approach the woman from the left, Riley should go right.
Flo materialized at the weeping woman’s left side and knelt, murmuring, “Dear heart, dear heart, I can tell you’ve been through so much.” At Flo’s gentle touch, Meg slowly lifted her head and turned to her. She pushed her hair from her face with her left hand and between sobs gasped, “Kayden promised me he’d share the money, but he never did! I had nothing and I took so many risks for him! I’m so tired, so tired … ”
Flo continued speaking softly as Riley approached Meg from the right as directed. To Riley’s dismay, the woman held a lighter in her right hand.
Meg turned from Flo and stared at the candle before her, her mouth slack, the candle’s flame reflected in her vacant eyes. She shook her head and snarled, “Stupid books! Worthless man! He deserved to die!”
Outside the sound of emergency vehicles and shouts cut the silence. With a scream, Meg leaped up, the motion causing the candle to teeter. She flicked the lighter and held it to the book in front of her. The paper caught. Riley grabbed Meg’s hand and wrenched the lighter free.
Flo put her arms around the woman and pulled her away from the table. Riley lunged for the teetering candle at the top of the pile and managed to grab it and pinch out the flame just as it toppled onto the books below. Melted wax spattered some of them but the flame was extinguished.
Firefighters surged into the tiny room, and one smacked the smoldering book with his heavy glove. Riley heaved a sigh of relief.
Minutes later, leaning against Gerri’s Cadillac, Riley said, “That was a close one!” A firefighter had checked her hand but the burns were superficial.
Gerri folded her arms. “Just imagine the mess the firefighting would’ve made if she had ignited that table of old books. The water damage! Of course they would’ve had to put them out but with that low ceiling the fire could’ve spread through the entire house. What a loss that would have been.”
Flo joined them, her expression somber. They watched two officers escort Meg to a police vehicle. Her sobbing had ceased and she trudged slowly, her shoulders and head slumped.
“Poor thing,” Flo said quietly. “She really fell apart.”
“Flo,” Gerri said, “you always feel sorry for people. That girl made a terrible choice. She could’ve left him.”
“I wonder.” Flo’s voice was tinged with sadness.
Riley gave Flo a hug. “You helped save the Penniman House and all those rare books. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Flo nodded. “Speaking of books, let’s head back to the church and see if Jack will let us reopen the sale for the rest of the weekend.”
Gerri flung her scarf over her shoulder. “Especially since we caught the killer for him.”
Back in the church meeting hall, Riley picked up four slices of coffee cake while Flo poured four cups of coffee. Jack had returned from the Penniman House to the church to confer with the medical examiner’s team, then joined the women in the office.
Gerri waved her fork. “Didn’t I say that young man was trouble? I could tell as soon as he walked in.”
Jack waved off the cake but sipped the coffee. “The state guys have taken the woman away. Her name is Meg Collins. She and Vandersloot were wanted all over New England for various break-ins and thefts of old books at historical societies.” He sighed, then gave in and took a big bite of the coffee cake. “Also they found a stash of counterfeit bills they were using at book sales related to their thefts. Sadly, there’s not much emphasis on stopping crimes like antique book theft. They’re considered victimless.”
Gerri smacked the table. “Victimless! Stealing from the history of every town! Everyone’s history. That’s hardly victimless.”
Jack raised his hands in surrender. He knew better than to argue with Gerri. “State guys say they’re releasing the meeting hall, so you can reopen the book sale tomorrow morning.”
The sisters clapped. Jack threw a bemused glance at Riley. “Well, it looks like you helped solve another one.”
“It was a group effort,” Riley said, smiling at Gerri and Flo. Flo cast her eyes down modestly, and Gerri preened.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Books? Travel? Ice Cream? Yes, please! Former librarian Meri Allen loves exploring the back roads—and ice cream shops—of her native New England. She also writes the award-winning Lobster Shack Mystery series as Shari Randall. Check out her travels, recipes, book giveaways and fun in her quarterly newsletter, The Scoop. Sign up on https://www.meriallenbooks.com. Happy reading!
The Ice Cream Shop Mysteries:
The Rocky Road to Ruin
Mint Chocolate Murder
Fatal Fudge Swirl
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THE DEVIL'S CHAIR
by Leslie Budewitz
A Spice Shop Mystery Short Story
Just a pinch of murder... When her life fell apart at age 40, Pepper Reece never expected to find solace in bay leaves. But her impulsive purchase of the Spice Shop in Seattle’s famed Pike Place Market turned out to be one of the best decisions she ever made. Between selling spice and juggling her personal life, she also discovered another unexpected talent—for solving crimes.
“Whose idea was this?” I muttered. My teeth were chattering. I couldn’t remember when it had last been this cold in Seattle the night before Halloween. The moon slipped in and out of the clouds, creating an eerie pattern of light and shadows on the path leading up the hill. At least the rain had stopped.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Pepper my dear,” Kristen said, “it may have been Tasha’s idea to meet up at the cemetery, but it was your idea to agree.”
“Right at this moment, I could kill us both.”
Tasha Samuels had been in our class from third grade through high school, one of those girls who lurked at the edges of nearly every group or activity, never clearly in or out. We’d gone to a small Catholic all-girls high school, one of the last graduating classes before the merger with the boys’ school a few blocks away. Kristen, my BFF since before we were born, and I had not seen or heard from Tasha in literally decades until the email inviting us to join her for a ghost tour of Lake View Cemetery, Seattle’s oldest and spookiest graveyard.
“At least she didn’t insist we wear costumes,” I said. Deal breaker for me.
Tasha’s email had said to park in the small lot at the entrance and meet at the top of the cemetery at eleven. The road that winds through Lake View isn’t lit and is much too narrow for easy driving, even in daylight. Besides, historic cemeteries seem like sacred places, ones you don’t want to disturb with modern inventions like cars. Instead, we’d walked the few blocks from Kristen’s house, leaving Arf, my faithful Airedale terrier, asleep at the foot of her sixteen-year-old daughter Savannah’s bed. Savannah had begged to come with us, relenting only when Kristen promised a family trip to the cemetery tomorrow, on Halloween itself. Though not at midnight. And with her dad and her little sister—oh, the indignity! She’d agreed. The lure of the graveyard with its secrets and stories was that strong.
A light flickered over the ridge.
“Someone’s here. Must be them. Or another tour,” I said. Urban life offers something for everyone, including midnight cemetery tours. It wasn’t my thing—a little too weird—but as long as the visitors are respectful, honoring the dead and their spirits, what could be the harm?
Besides, with Halloween just a few hours away, it was peak season for weird.
I’d enjoyed seeing trick-or-treaters at the door when I was married and living in a residential neighborhood. Now that I’m single—though happily attached—and home is a one-bedroom loft in a converted warehouse downtown, my participation in the festivities is strictly professional. As the owner of Seattle Spice in Pike Place Market, I am surrounded by things gourdish and ghoulish all month long. My staff and I enjoy spinning fake spider webs, filling bowls with goblin eggs and warty gourds, and creating displays of seasonal blends like mulling spices, Mayan cocoa, and pumpkin spice.
So. Much. Pumpkin Spice.
But we don’t dress up. By mutual agreement, we stick to our daily uniform of black and white clothing and black aprons sporting the shop’s logo, a shaker sprinkling salt into the ocean. Although my assistant manager regularly dons a clown wig during the season, and our youngest employee has been painting her face and wearing fairy wings. Fun is always good for business. Kristen, who works for me a few days a week, ties on a black-and-orange scarf when she’s in the shop. Both of us favor bright colors after hours, so it was funny that we’d both worn black for our pre-midnight jaunt.
