Small Town Scary (Cozy Mystery Collection) Read online

  “Or maybe the murderer wanted to frame our mother,” I concluded somberly. “And it worked.”

  Penelope gasped, “You’re right! That’s the only explanation!”

  “And even if you don’t believe that explanation, Captain Davis, you do believe in the American legal principle of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ don’t you? Well, of course, you have to. That’s part of being a law enforcement officer. Is there any reason why that principle wouldn’t apply to my mother?” I snapped, assuming a regally erect posture.

  “I just came to inform you of the news…before you heard it from a less desirable source,” Captain Davis babbled.

  “A less desirable source?” I snorted. Like the Grim Reaper maybe?

  “I’ll be on my way now,” Captain Davis muttered, already shuffling out the door like a blood thirsty jaguar was chasing him.

  “I cannot believe that man! The audacity!” I screamed, not caring if he was still in earshot.

  “Forget him! We have to go see Mom…in jail,” Penelope’s voice cracked on the last word.

  “I don’t even know where the county jail is,” I sighed wearily. I didn’t want to know where it was. And I certainly didn’t want to know that my mother had been carted off there. If I had thought Aunt Connie’s murder was a nightmare…

  “Hi girls!” Mrs. Dollner chirped gaily as she strolled into the shop.

  “Mrs. Dollner, what are you doing here?” I asked testily.

  Affronted, she replied, “Well dear, I’m all out of citrus tea and thought I would come here to pick up a tin.”

  “The shop is closing early today,” I announced unceremoniously, at the moment not caring if the whole business were permanently shuttered. My mother’s well-being took precedence over everything, including my livelihood.

  “Why? What’s happened now?” Mrs. Dollner asked anxiously.

  “We don’t have time to talk about it,” I clipped, zipping up my sweater.

  “Dear, did I do something wrong? You seemed a bit irritated with me last week. My goodness, I even thought I heard your tires screeching as you pulled away from my cottage,” Mrs. Dollner complained.

  “Sorry. This whole murder investigation is a bit stressful,” I replied bitingly.

  “There’s no need for sarcasm, Marisa. I only want to help…and I told you, the murderer was in that apartment!”

  “Yes, and it wasn’t you, right?”

  “Of course it wasn’t me!” Mrs. Dollner declared with brushfire spreading across her crinkled features.

  “Marisa, why are you being so rude?” Penelope asked gently.

  “Again, I’m sorry. Look, Mrs. Dollner, you can come with us if you want. But you should know that we’re on our way to jail,” I said darkly.

  “Jail?!” Mrs. Dollner was sufficiently horrified. “You’re being arrested?”

  “No, our mother was arrested. It’s a long story. I’ll explain it to you on the ride over.”

  The three of us scurried out of the shop as I deadbolted the door and shivered as a gust of wind knocked the keys out of my hand. Grimly, I envisioned my mother in a holding cell, trying not to imagine how cold the steel bars would be.

  ***

  The police were still processing my mother’s intake forms when we arrived at the jail. From mug shot to strip search to uniform fitting, the brutes were putting Mom through the wringer while Dad stood by like a charging bull.

  “Who do you think you are arresting my wife? Where’s your proof? I want to see it!” He fumed as I rushed to his side to calm him.

  “Dad, please. The last thing we need is for you to be arrested for disorderly conduct,” I pleaded.

  “Let them arrest me! And let Denidra go! I’ll take her place right now!”

  Clearly, there was no reasoning with an overprotective husband like Ted Locke. “Well then for Mom’s sake, let’s try to stay calm. This is traumatic enough for her. We don’t need her to see all of us upset too. We have to be strong for her.”

  Mildly appeased, my father nodded curtly. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “When do we get to see her?” Penelope demanded of the first police officer who crossed her path.

  “Who?” The cop asked quizzically before examining Penelope’s tan face and bold brown eyes. “Oh, are you one of Denidra Locke’s daughters? She was driving everyone crazy on the ride here saying that she needed to speak to you. The officers told her she can’t speak to anyone until she’s fully processed in the system.”

  “She must have something important to say!” Penelope exclaimed.

  “When will she be fully processed?” I asked calmly, even though a hailstorm of emotions was pounding inside my gut.

  “Within the next hour or so. I’d suggest you have a seat until then. We have some vending machines with soda and snacks…”

  “I don’t want soda and snacks!” My father boomed. “I just want to get my wife out of here! What’s the bail price?”

  “That hasn’t been determined yet, sir. The bail hearing will most likely take place on Monday morning…”

  “Monday morning? But that’s three days from now! You can’t keep my mother locked up for three days without bail!” Penelope yelled.

  “I’m afraid that’s the way it goes. The court is in recess until Monday. The judge will determine if bail will be set then.”

  “If bail will be set?” I gulped ominously.

  “Correct. This is a second degree murder charge, miss. Sometimes defendants are held without bail when the charges are so serious,” the cop replied nonchalantly.

  “But that’s only if they’re a danger to the community, right?” I clarified.

  “Miss, it’s really not for me to decide. You’ll have to wait and hear the judge’s ruling.”

  Plodding over to a wooden bench, I threw myself into a sitting position, feeling a splinter stab my hip and not caring at all. Dad and Penelope sat on either side of me, one sulking and the other softly weeping. Mrs. Dollner perched sullenly on a bench across from us, spreading out her shawl and placing it under her bottom as a cushion. All of us remained in tense silence for the next hour.

  Finally, a police officer indicated that we could speak with “the prisoner.” But only on the telephone and through a glass partition. Cramming together against the bulletproof glass, we listened with rapt attention as she implored:

  “Go to Aunt Connie’s house! Find out the truth! Go to Aunt Connie’s house and search until you find the truth!”

  Chapter 8

  Aunt Connie’s house was eerily still, the unraked leaves and overflowing mailbox betraying her absence. Mrs. Dollner was like a rear bumper on a car, staying so close behind that she felt like a part of me. Clearly, the woman had come undone, her stoic composure long gone and replaced with primitive fear.

  “I should have stayed behind with your father and Penelope,” she whispered into my ear.

  “I can drive you back to the jail…or your cottage if you want,” I offered.

  “No, no, I’m going inside with you!” Mrs. Dollner said resolutely, some of her natural chutzpah reinvigorated at the thought of being sent home.

  “First, I have to figure out how to get inside. I don’t have the key,” I groaned impatiently.

  “Then we can pick the lock!” Mrs. Dollner said excitedly. Reaching into her upswept hair, she grabbed a bobby pin and handed it to me. “Try this!”

  Jiggling the pin inside the lock a few times, I was surprised by how easy it was to pick. The heavy door swung open with a creak as Mrs. Dollner and I filed inside. The sheer enormity of Aunt Connie’s house was overwhelming. I had no idea where to start. Roaming around the rooms and sticking my head inside each doorway, I tried to decipher what clue my mother was referring to when she begged us to “find out the truth!”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I jumped to see that Mrs. Dollner had vanished. Perhaps she had set off to investigate on her own. Climbing the stairs to Aunt Connie’s empty bedroom, I felt my way around
in the dark for a light switch. Finding one on the top of the stairwell, I illuminated the entire upper floor. Aunt Connie’s bed was tidily made with a rosebud quilt and clean cotton sheets underneath. She had a glass vanity table and mirror by the window with bottles of perfume and cosmetics. Vintage issues of Good Housekeeping and Redbook were arranged on a mahogany nightstand. All the remnants of a life stolen with a few deadly sips. I sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling dizzy.

  “Where are you dear?” Mrs. Dollner called from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Upstairs in the bedroom.”

  Mrs. Dollner hurried into the room, carrying a cup of freshly brewed coffee in her hands. “I thought this might help.”

  Gazing at her warily, I reminded, “I’ve told you that the messages can’t be forced. They seem to have a mind and will of their own.”

  “Who’s forcing anything? I’m just giving you a cup of coffee. Drink it. This could be a long night.” Mrs. Dollner placed the cup under my nose as I inhaled the bittersweet aroma.

  Placing the porcelain rim to my lips, I took a tentative sip, trying to avert my eyes from the bottom of the cup. But as I drained the cup, I felt pulled to look deeper and receive some unknown clue. My usual realism-pessimism took over as I frowned into the bottom of the cup, almost challenging it to tell me something helpful.

  “The lockbox! Again!” I gasped as the vision materialized inside the coffee cup.

  “What are you seeing, dear?” Mrs. Dollner asked in amazement, peering into the cup blank-faced.

  “It’s a lockbox…with the papers scattered everywhere! This means that the box of letters I saw Aunt Patricia with wasn’t the one I was meant to find. There’s another one!” The cup shattered as I carelessly tossed it onto the nightstand and bolted out of the room.

  Predictably, Mrs. Dollner trailed at my heels, joining me in Aunt Connie’s office. “Look at her desk!” I exclaimed, unable to believe my luck.

  “That’s a lockbox! Oh I hope it’s the one you need, dear,” Mrs. Dollner said optimistically.

  Grasping the metal box like a long awaited Christmas present, I sighed raggedly to see that it was securely locked. Perceiving my dilemma, Mrs. Dollner snatched another bobby pin out of her hair and handed it to me. I twisted the pin every which way, but this lock wasn’t as easily broken as the first.

  “I guess you’re just going to have to smash it!” Mrs. Dollner said gleefully.

  “Yes. I need a hammer or something.” I looked around me for an appropriately destructive tool.

  “Try this flashlight!” Mrs. Dollner suggested, pulling one out of the desk drawer.

  “I don’t know if it’s powerful enough, but I’ll try,” I mumbled, slamming the flashlight against the lock as Mrs. Dollner covered her ears.

  Repeatedly, I bashed the lock in, hoping to break it by creating a dent and then a gape. But it wasn’t working. Flying out of the room with the box in my hands, I descended two flights of stairs into a musty basement. Turning Aunt Connie’s belongings upside down, I finally found a toolbox.

  “Perfect!” I said breathlessly, grabbing the biggest hammer and hacking relentlessly at the lockbox.

  Never one to miss a show, Mrs. Dollner arrived a moment later, short of breath. “Is it open yet?”

  “Almost!” I said triumphantly. One more sharp bang and the lock cracked in two.

  “You did it!” Mrs. Dollner waited expectantly as I pried the box open.

  Holding my breath, I lifted the lid and gazed inside, almost afraid of what I would find. Breathless anticipation quickly turned to severe disappointment as I dumped the contents of the box onto the floor. “This isn’t the lockbox from my vision. It can’t be. Look at this junk!”

  Old Girl Scout badges, friendship bracelets, and love letters from boys comprised the useless stash of the lockbox. An oddly shaped silver pendant, similar to the one I had seen at Aunt Patricia’s house, jumped out at me. It was engraved with one word: best. Surmising that Aunt Patricia must have the second half with the inscription, friends, I stomped my foot on the floor in frustration.

  “How am I going to get my mother out of jail? These stupid trinkets don’t mean anything,” I wailed, losing control of my emotions for the first time in countless years.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Dollner consoled. “You’re getting closer to what you need to find. I can feel it!”

  Despairingly, I hung my head, picturing my mother in that crude striped uniform shivering inside an unheated cell. “I can’t give up now.”

  “That’s right, you can’t! And I won’t let you! Now, think. Think, Marisa. Maybe there’s another lockbox in your aunt’s house? Maybe you just haven’t found it yet!”

  “Maybe…but I can’t play guessing games anymore. I need someone to give me some concrete information. But no one in my family will help me…except maybe Uncle Sanford. He was kind of nice when we showed up on his doorstep last week,” I said, drawing at straws.

  “Yes, I suppose he was nice compared to your aunts!” Mrs. Dollner said frankly.

  “Maybe he knows about the lockbox and what my mother wanted us to find in Aunt Connie’s house.”

  “Well, let’s not just stand here talking about it! Let’s go see for ourselves!” Mrs. Dollner was already climbing out of the basement as I smiled slightly, grateful for her ever-boisterous presence. If only every senior had her sunny attitude, then no one would have any reason to quest after the fountain of youth.

  ***

  The brook bubbled in the sunset wind as I raced against time, determined not to let my mother spend a single night in jail. Like a golden pillar, the building shone in the distance, obscured by the violet shades of dusk and splintering fire of the setting sun. Energetic as ever, Mrs. Dollner hopped out of the car and strolled the pathway with me, keeping impressively abreast of my pace.

  In the lobby, I groaned to see the same leering pervert who had welcomed me to “Sanny’s” apartment last week. Swallowing my reservations, I walked directly to the desk and announced myself.

  Spooning cottage cheese and peaches into his mouth, the old man looked me up and down as though I would make a much better meal. “I remember you! Lucky old Sanny!”

  “I’m his niece, remember?” I said tightly.

  “Oh yes! Haha!” He laughed and choked on a spoonful of cottage cheese. Clearing his throat like a human sized frog, he announced, “But your uncle’s not home right now. Tonight is Bingo night down at the hall.”

  “Bingo night?” I parroted disdainfully. Of course my uncle had to be gambling the one time I needed him! Turning on the charm against my better judgment, I flirted, “But you could let us into his apartment, couldn’t you…” I stalled, unsure of the geezer’s name.

  “Howard,” he eagerly provided.

  “Howard,” I cooed. “Yes, couldn’t you use your master key and let us in the door? It’s very important…and I would really appreciate it.” I flipped my hair for Howard’s benefit.

  Bewitched, Howard nonetheless hesitated. “Well, honey, I don’t know. You wouldn’t want to get old Howie in trouble, would you?”

  “Of course not! It will just be our secret.” I winked at him, thoroughly disgusted with myself.