Shedding Light on Murder Read online

  SHEDDING LIGHT ON MURDER

  Patricia Driscoll

  Copyright © 2012 by Patricia Driscoll

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Formatting: Hale Author Services

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  About the Author

  This book is for Nick Klimenko, my incredible husband, who has supported me every step of this adventure.

  L.U.M.T.A.

  Author’s Note

  I’ve had a love affair with all things Cape Cod since I was a child. It was a pleasure to set my novel in charming and historic Barnstable Village. I’ve endeavored to be true to the village, but out of literary necessity, I’ve made a few changes to the landscape of the town.

  If Pearl’s lamp shop seems familiar to locals, that’s because I have been inspired by Barfield’s in Yarmouthport. My mother, Fran Driscoll, worked there for twenty-seven years and loved every minute of it.

  Chapter One

  GRACE TOLLIVER INSERTED her key in the lock and with a little push, the door gave, a bell jingled and she stepped into a small hallway. She reached up and tugged on a faded red ribbon. The bell came loose at once and she shoved it into the pocket of her leather jacket.

  Kicking off her boots, she stepped into a pair of black clogs, hung her coat in a closet and ran upstairs to her shop, Pearl’s Antique Lamps and Shades. Ducking into her small office, she placed her purse in the bottom drawer of a battered metal filing cabinet, reached behind a ruby tinted shade and fumbled for the thermostat. Last night’s storm dumped almost twenty inches of snow on Cape Cod, and temperatures were in the high teens. Grace rubbed her hands together and blew on her cold fingers. At least the power was on. She hadn’t been so lucky at her own house, which sat on the edge of a great marsh a short distance from the harbor, and about a half mile from the town center. Around midnight, gusty winds felled an old ice-laden maple, sending it crashing into a power line, and cutting off electricity to the aptly named Freezer Road.

  As she circled around the shop, turning on lamps, she heard the door downstairs slam shut followed by thudding, slapping noises on the stairs. “Life sucks,” muttered Duane Kerbey as he leaped over the top three steps and sped by her, his wet hair plastered under his wool ski cap. A blue jacket was zipped up to his chin and he carried a Dunkin Donuts bag. His tennis shoes dripped water on the wood floors as he headed for the kitchen area, mumbling something that sounded like “Gotta help mink.”

  Grace decided to ignore whatever it was he said, for the time being at least. Knowing Duane, his foul mood might reflect a major life crisis or simply the lack of jelly donuts at the nearby coffee shop. It was difficult to imagine her new employee worried about the mink population, but she would talk to him later, after he had a few minutes to chill out.

  The phone rang. “Pearl’s,” she said.

  “Grace, it’s Danielle Whitney,” a voice purred in what, Grace thought, was an appealing French accent. “I wonder if you could send someone over to pick up a lamp I want to have cleaned and rewired. Would it be a bother?”

  “Of course not, Danielle. I’ll send Duane right over.” Matt and Milo, the former owners of Pearl’s, introduced her to the attractive woman not long before they retired, when Danielle came into the shop to get a new liner for a shade.

  “An excellent customer,” Matt had said.

  “But picky,” Milo added.

  “I also want you to make a new shade. I’m sure when you see the lamp and finial, you will come up with something special and unique. It’s going to be a Christmas present, so I must have it back by next week. Wonderful storm, isn’t it? I’m afraid my front walkway is deep in snow. The young boys who shovel it haven’t come by yet.”

  “That’s okay,” Grace assured her, at the same time wondering how she was going to complete all of her special orders by Christmas, which was only two weeks away. “Duane can walk through the snow if he needs to. And we’ll get that lamp ready in plenty of time for the holidays.”

  As she hung up the phone, Grace felt a ripple of unease. The annual Barnstable Village Stroll was Saturday. There was a stack of orders of hand-painted shades to finish. She had to figure out what kinds of refreshments she would serve and spruce up the shop for the crowds that would descend on the one-block town. This would be the first time that Grace participated in the event and she wanted everything to be perfect. More than perfect. She wanted to make a killing. After all, there were bills piling up, and the kinds of renovations she was planning would not come cheap.

  “Duane, I need you to go over to Mrs. Whitney’s house and pick up a lamp for repair. It’s down the street. A big brick house with black shutters. Finish your coffee, then go. Okay?”

  “Yup.”

  Duane took a few gulps of coffee, shoved half a donut in his mouth, and headed down the stairs, trailed by a cloud of powdery sugar.

  Chapter Two

  “MY GOODNESS! HAVE you ever seen such a gorgeous snowstorm?” Michael Shipworth said as he arrived at the shop a few minutes after Duane’s departure. Holding a pair of shiny leather loafers in his hand, and dripping wet boots in his other, he squinted at Grace through wire-rimmed glasses. “And what’s happened to our bell?” he asked.

  “Hey Michael, I’m sorry about the bell, it’s charming but annoying, clanging every time someone opens the door. I thought we’d see if we could get along without it for a while,” Grace said as she crawled halfway under a table to plug in a yellow tea caddy lamp with a black toile shade. “Thanks for coming out in this snowstorm, and on a Sunday morning too. I’m feeling a bit guilty taking you away from
Edith and church.”

  “Not to worry,” he told her as he threaded his way between two long tables cluttered with old lamps of all shapes and sizes. “I went to church last night. But I am concerned about Edith. She was still in bed when I left the house and, as you know, she’s getting on in years. I turned on the heating pad so she would be nice and toasty. I don’t think she likes snow. She turned up her nose at her dish of Fancy Feast. I even gave her the Ocean Whitefish with Gravy but she wasn’t interested.”

  Tiptoeing to the wood ladder-back chair in the corner, Michael, a man of elfin proportions, disappeared behind a large empire lampshade as Grace came out from under the table and brushed some dust off her jeans. Spotting him in the corner, she watched as he used his sterling silver shoehorn to push his small feet into his tasseled loafers. He was bending over in such a way that Grace had a bird’s-eye view of a large bald spot, with a nest of fine mouse brown hair combed over it.

  Michael patted his hair and straightened his bow tie. “My front door was frozen and there was a waist-high drift on the front porch. I was lucky to get the slider to work and get over here. I had to take several detours because there were road closures and abandoned vehicles in the way. This is a big storm for Cape Cod, and the road crews are not equipped to handle it. Missing California?” he teased. Like many people who had never lived anywhere but their hometown, Michael delighted in making fun of places he had never been to and knew little about. Anything to do with California in particular seemed to amuse him no end.

  “Not really,” Grace replied, walking to the bay window and looking out at the almost white-out conditions. “I enjoyed my years in San Francisco but don’t forget, I grew up on the Cape. Believe it or not, I missed snow.”

  Michael nodded in agreement. “Oh, by the way, I saw Bella last night at church. She was rehearsing for the annual Christmas concert. It’s a benefit for our daycare center and...”

  “Wait a minute. Bella sings?” Grace asked incredulously. Bella, the shop’s electrician and lamp restorer, had a voice that reminded Grace of family camping trips to Maine during moose mating season.

  “Oh yes! She sings in our choir. Been there for years. Of course it’s not the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or anything. But Bella is very enthusiastic.”

  Picking up a purple feather duster, Michael started to dust the lamps in the bay window. “Look, here comes Bella now. A little snow is not going to stop her.”

  Grace watched Bella Benson making her way down the middle of the roadway, the only place that had so far been plowed. She walked briskly, her head covered by a felt waterproof hat pulled low over her face. Dressed in a dark gray overcoat and black galoshes, she carried a cane but hardly used it.

  “Did you know that Bella is a veteran?” Michael asked Grace.

  “No kidding?”

  Yes. U. S. Army Corps of Nurses. She landed with MacArthur in Korea. She has the most amazing stories.”

  The stairs were difficult for Bella, but she never complained. Waving her hat at them, she went directly to her work area in what Grace had come to recognize was her way of hiding the fact that she was out of breath. Giving her a minute to get settled, she waited while Bella switched on the fluorescent light above her workbench, hung her coat on an old wooden coat rack, and sat her bulky, eighty-one-year-old body down heavily on a low stool to replace her boots with a pair of worn flannel slippers. Grace thought that Bella and Julia Child might have been twins separated at birth. There was a striking resemblance.

  “Coffee will be ready in a minute,” Michael said.

  “Thanks,” Bella said, pulling a worn red sweater over her green shirtwaist dress. “I’ll help myself in a minute. Just let me get organized a bit.”

  “Speaking of charming and annoying, I see that Duane’s been here,” Michael said, staring at the sticky sugar-covered floor. He shook his head. Clearly, this was not the kind of thing he had encountered during his employment at The Pilgrim House, purveyors of fine furniture since 1909. He worked at the venerable store for many years, and lost his job when it went out of business. When he stopped by Pearl’s a couple of months ago to commiserate, Grace hired him on the spot. “No wonder we have a mouse problem,” he grumbled as he swept up some crumbs.

  Grace took the broom out of his hands. “Here, I’ll sweep and you scoop,” she said. “I know, Duane drives me crazy too. But, when I was a probation officer, I used to get frustrated when no one would give my probationers a job. When Sean came by from Pinewood, the halfway house, and asked me to take on a Christmas helper, I wanted to give Duane a chance. He’s doing well in rehab. However, I’ll admit, he’s a work in progress for sure.”

  Michael frowned. “I haven’t seen much work or progress yet, but I trust you know what you’re doing.”

  “Let’s give him a little time,” Grace said, putting the broom and dustpan away. “Duane’s had a tough time, and his life hasn’t been easy. How much trouble can he get into in a lamp shop anyway?”

  “Well, for starters...” Michael began, as he straightened a lampshade, turning the seam so it faced the wall.

  “I hope it’s quiet here today.” Grace interrupted him. “I can’t wait to decorate this gloomy old place. Let’s start by hauling the Christmas tree inside. It was delivered yesterday. It’s out on the back porch. Then we can drape white lights around the windows and hang a wreath on the front door.”

  “Okay,” Michael replied as he followed her down the hall, past the chandelier room and the fairy lamp alcove to the back door.

  Grace unhooked the small bolt-style locks from the top and bottom of the glass-paned door, and with a sharp tug, pulled the door open to find the tree leaning against the side of the shop covered with layers of snow and ice.

  “Uh-oh,” Michael said. “I think this is going to take a bit of work. The tree is frozen to the siding. I’ll go get some tools from Bella and chop it loose. It’s going to take some defrosting before we can put lights on it.”

  Michael stepped back inside as a gust of wind blew snow across the oak floor. Grace slammed the door shut and waited impatiently as Michael went to get the tools. Now she’d have to rearrange her day. They could string up the lights but it was going to take hours for the tree to warm up. She should have realized, when she woke up this morning without electricity, that today was not going to go as planned. She took a deep breath, counted to ten and reminded herself that her blood pressure was a bit on the high side when she had it checked last month. No use getting worked up. After all, there was nothing she could do about it.

  Michael returned a few minutes later followed by Bella, who was carrying a large handsaw and a hair dryer. He rolled his eyes at Grace and shrugged as Bella pushed forward saying, “I can handle this in no time.”

  After plugging in the dryer, Bella stepped onto the second-story porch where, planting her feet squarely against the wind, she sawed and blew-dried the tree, all the while humming a chorus of “Jingle Bells.”

  Michael and Grace tried to help by picking up the sawed-off branches but Bella kicked the pine scraps off the side of the porch and down the wooden steps with her slipper-shod foot.

  “I’ll go get some newspapers, and we can put them under the tree so it can drip dry.” Michael said helpfully. “And, since Duane seems to be taking a long donut break or whatever, I’ll move those delivery boxes away from the top of the stairs before someone falls and breaks their neck.”

  Grace checked her watch as she returned to her office. She had forgotten all about Duane and his errand. What could be keeping him? He was so darned flaky. It was just like him to take thirty minutes to run a five-minute errand, particularly when she needed him back at the shop now, unloading boxes and packaging up mail orders. Matt and Milo had said that there might be some holiday decorations up in the attic, and she wanted him to look for some old drawings and shade templates. She wasn’t too keen on going up there herself. The lighting wasn’t the best and there were mice or rats, or, at the very least, spiders an
d God knows what else up there.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door slamming downstairs, followed by the rapid steps of someone running up the stairs, and finally by Duane bursting into the shop, a mask of sheer terror on his face.

  “I think that lady you sent me to see is dead!”

  Chapter Three

  GRACE RACED UP the walk to Danielle’s house with Duane close behind her. She brushed past a wreath that hung on the half-opened door. As she hesitated in the front hall, Duane came up behind her and pointed into the living room.

  “Oh, God!” Grace gasped. She ran to the body of Danielle Whitney. Lying on her right side, her arm was crumpled beneath her.

  Grace saw a deep gash in the back of Danielle’s head. She reached down for Danielle’s wrist. There was no pulse. She looked at Duane who was still standing in the hall.

  “I’ve got to call 911. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Nope, the rehab doesn’t let us have them.”

  Grace spun around. There was a phone on an end table a few feet from where Danielle lay. She grabbed a paper cocktail napkin from the coffee table and used it to pick up the receiver and place the call.

  “Go out on the porch and wait for the police,” she told Duane. Although she wanted to look away, Grace forced herself to look at the body, feeling that she ought to be doing something, but realizing that Danielle was beyond help. Dressed in dark gray slacks and a pearl gray cashmere sweater, her feet in expensive-looking black pumps, she appeared elegant, even in death.

  A massive walnut desk in the corner appeared to have been ransacked, tea from an overturned cup staining the leather top. Papers were strewn around the floor below it. A candle with the essence of cinnamon and honey sat on a stack of books on the glass coffee table, its dying flame a speck of amber. The doors of a large mirrored armoire were open, exposing a collection of vases, linens, note cards and correspondence. On the bottom shelf a small light glowed on the CD player, Frank Sinatra was crooning “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”