A Candidate For Murder (Old Maids of Mercer Island Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  A CANDIDATE FOR MURDER

  An Old Maids of Mercer Island Mystery

  By

  Lynn Bohart

  Dedicated to my friends and colleagues in Renton,

  Washington for their tremendous support.

  Cover Art:

  Mia Yoshihara-Bradshaw

  Copyright © 2015 by Lynn Bohart

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief quotations for the use of reviews or promotional articles approved by the author.

  Published by Little Dog Press

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I owe so much, to so many. First and foremost would be my writing group: Lori Church-Pursley, Tim McDaniel, Michael Manzer, Gary Larson, Timera Drake, Jenae Cartwright and Irma Fritz. These guys read the manuscript chapter by chapter over a period of eight months, helping to clear up ambiguities, character flaws, and plot points. Thank you to beta readers Karen Gilb, Bill Dolan, Valerie O’Halloran and Chris Spahn, who read it from cover-to-cover and helped with flow, clarification and consistencies. As always, thanks to my friend and editor Liz Stewart, who is so generous with her time and talent. My deepest thanks go to Chief Kevin Milosevich, Renton Police Department, Judge Bob McBeth, and Northwest Gourmet Foods, who gave me advice on the barbeque sauce. Lastly, I want to thank Barb Nilson for allowing me to use the “gnome home” concept. Barb actually created and lived in the gnome home, which I was completely enthralled with and just had to use.

  I am deeply indebted to my friend, Mia Bradshaw, who designed the cover. Mia is a wonderful artist and craftsperson in the Seattle area and shows/sells her work locally. Please check out her website at www.miayoshihara.com.

  Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction and while many of the businesses, locations, and organizations referenced in the book are real, they are used in a way that is purely fictional. And I took some liberty with locations on Mercer Island to fit the storyline.

  Table of Contents

  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

  A CANDIDATE FOR MURDER

  By Lynn Bohart

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a good night for a murder. A storm raged around him as he waited patiently in the shadows. The wind wrestled with the trees, and a punishing rain flooded the parking lot. With the temperature dipping precariously close to freezing, he anticipated sleet soon, if not snow. There were only a few cars on the road and fewer individuals foolish enough to wander outside on foot.

  Yes, it was a good night for a murder.

  His father would have disagreed. Not that his father would have cared about the murder. He’d been an ornery bastard. But his father would have never considered leaving the house in such awful weather. But then, his father had been an overly cautious man who never traveled anywhere without matches, a Swiss Army knife and potable water – just in case.

  “Son,” he would say. “It’s better to be prepared than dead.”

  And yet his father had died at the age of 43, killed while crossing the street in a small town in Oregon. In his pocket were the box of matches and the Swiss Army knife; the potable water was stowed in the car. So what good had those things been to him in his moment of need, when on a sunny summer afternoon a distracted soccer mom with three screaming kids in the car mowed him down in the middle of the crosswalk?

  None.

  Well, he wasn’t his father, and he had none of those things with him tonight; he didn’t even own a Swiss Army knife. Resting heavy in his pocket was the one thing that mattered right now – the planishing hammer he’d bought at the hardware store the day before. He wouldn’t be doing any metal work with it like he used to do in high school, but it was designed perfectly to do the job tonight. Afterwards, he had the assurance that enough money would follow this job to set him up for life. Because unlike his father, the woman he expected to see in a few minutes craved attention enough to actually brave this storm, and she would come.

  He finished the last of his brew and set the bottle aside. A gust of cold air found its way inside his coat, forcing a shiver down his back. The rain had finally turned to sleet, and the puddles were freezing over into tiny ice rinks.

  It was time to get this done before he froze to death.

  He stood on the far side of the small building, away from the prying eyes of the occasional passing car. He had already sent the incriminating message that would lure his victim to the library this late at night; the message that would also throw suspicion on the person this woman would never refuse.

  As he watched for the bright red BMW that would bring her to him, a black and white police car glided slowly down the street in the other direction.

  His pulse quickened.

  This wasn’t good. Why would the police be patrolling the library?

  Then he remembered.

  Someone had breached the front door of the library just two weeks before, spray-painting obscenities on the walls and generally trashing the place. The library had closed for a week of repairs and clean – up, and then the library board had approved a new alarm system. That brought a smile to his lips. Part of the plan tonight was to use that very same alarm system to make his escape. But he hadn’t counted on extra police patrols.

  Fortunately, the squad car didn’t stop. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared.

  He let out a sigh of relief, but knew that now he had a finite amount of time before the patrol car returned.

  A glance at his watch told him that in another minute, she would be late. He held his breath, wondering if his source had been right and if she would show at all. Perhaps she would display more sense than his accomplice gave her credit for.

  But then the BMW pulled into the far end of the parking lot. It was almost exactly 10:30 p.m.

  The expensive car approached him straight on, forcing him to duck down so the headlights didn’t reveal him. The car slid into the handicapped spot next to the front door, only a few feet from where he crouched in the darkness. His muscles flexed. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the hammer in his pocket.

  He made ready to move, but the car’s engine continued to purr, shooting a faint, white exhaust into the nighttime cold. What was she waiting for? Did she suspect something?

  He’d purposely parked on a side street so there were no cars in the parking lot. Maybe that had been a mist
ake. She might wait for the woman she’d come to meet.

  As the sleet slapped the hood of the expensive vehicle, he feared the weather might also work to his disadvantage. He’d hoped the security light inside the library would draw her out, but maybe she wouldn’t get out of the car unless she absolutely had to.

  And then the BMW’s engine died. The headlights flicked off, and the car door opened. A hooded figure emerged and ran quickly for the protection of the overhang.

  ÷

  Trudy Bascom left the warmth and comfort of the million-dollar home on Placer Drive cursing Dana Finkle, who had stayed behind to extract a fat campaign check from Christine Newall. Christine was married to the President of Puget Sound Bank and had made a last minute request for the meeting. Since Trudy was Dana’s campaign assistant, Dana had asked Trudy to join her. All through the evening, Dana had practically salivated at the prospect of not only getting the couple’s endorsement, but a sizable donation to her mayoral campaign.

  Just as the discussion turned to the campaign, however, Dana received a message from Julia Applegate, owner of the St. Claire Inn. The message read:

  “Meet me at the library tonight at 10:30. We have to talk. Trust me; I’ll make it worth your time.”

  Julia was a minor celebrity on the island. She and her friends had recently helped solve a major murder case and saved the life of a young pregnant woman in the process. As a result, the mayor awarded each of them with the first-ever “Hero of Mercer Island Award” – something Dana hated. But not something Dana hated more than Julia. Nothing could beat that.

  “You know damn well that Julia just wants to gloat more about that stupid award the mayor bestowed on her,” Dana said when Christine left the room to grab another bottle of wine. “I don’t know how he ever came up with such a ridiculous idea. ‘Hero of Mercer Island.’” She said this with a derisive snort, nearly blowing snot out her nose.

  “But maybe she wants to help on the campaign,” Trudy countered hopefully.

  Trudy knew full well that it would be a cold day in hell before Julia would offer to help on Dana’s campaign. Julia hated Dana almost as much as Dana hated her.

  “No,” Dana spat. “I have it on good authority that Julia and that group of misfit old hags she hangs around with filed for her campaign yesterday. Julia is going to run against me. Me!” she said, as if the very thought that Julia would have the gall to run against her was as ridiculous as the moon being made of cheese.

  “What do you think she wants, then?” Trudy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dana replied, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on Christine Newall’s expensive Riverstone cocktail table. It was made to look like a rounded stone plucked right out of a river, and as Dana tapped her fingers, she left sticky fingerprints all over it. “Maybe she’s going to try and get me to drop out of the race,” Dana murmured, sitting back.

  “But you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Trudy asked, cautiously rubbing out the fingerprints with a cocktail napkin.

  Dana flashed an incredulous look at Trudy. “Of course not. I’m going to be Mercer Island’s next mayor. You can bet on it. And then I’ll be making some big decisions around here.”

  And then Dana made her biggest decision yet – she sent Trudy out in the storm to meet with Julia in her place.

  So here Trudy was, winding her way around corners on side streets, heading towards the top of the island and the library instead of Dana. She hadn’t played that very well. She could have said, “No, Dana, I think you should go.” But then, Trudy was what her mother had always referred to as a doormat with a bad perm. She was an extreme introvert by nature. In fact, she was so meek and mild she had a tendency to blend in with the furniture. At last year’s New Year’s Eve party, Fred Stiller had actually sat on her as if she were part of the lumpy sofa. It wasn’t until she’d squealed that he’d jumped up and apologized.

  Now, here she was running an errand in the middle of a winter storm, just so Dana could bask in the glow of a big donor.

  It was so like Dana.

  Trudy often questioned her decision to become Dana’s campaign assistant. She worked for Dana’s husband at his collection agency in downtown Mercer Island. Dana owned a small antique shop not far from the collection agency, which competed with Julia Applegate’s sale of antiques at the St. Claire Inn. It was one of the things that twisted Dana into knots. Dana sat on the City Council and had tried for almost two years to cancel-out the exception to the zoning laws that allowed Julia to have three businesses on the same property. If successful, it would force Julia to move the antique business, and maybe her bakery, downtown. It would probably force her out of business. That was just like Dana, too – if you didn’t like someone or felt they might outdo you in some way, make their life hell.

  If asked, Trudy would have to admit that she didn’t actually care much for Dana. Dana typically just blew past the front desk at the collection agency as if no one behind the counter mattered in her world. But when Dana had suddenly stopped one day and asked Trudy if she would like to help on the campaign, Trudy thought it would be a chance for her to step out of the shadows. And she had some good skills, which of course, Dana took advantage of. In the end, Trudy had agreed, thinking she had to stop being the wallflower and actually blossom a little.

  She chuckled at that little pun.

  “Oh well,” she murmured to herself.

  This would only take her a few minutes, and she’d get to talk to the great Julia Applegate. Julia wasn’t just a hero on Mercer Island; she was the ex-wife of the Governor of Washington State.

  Trudy had never actually met Julia, so this was one of those big opportunities she was looking forward to. And it was important she didn’t blow it. She would have to graciously find out what Julia wanted and then head back to Christine’s, where Dana was sure to throw a fit. It seemed just the mention of Julia Applegate’s name caused Dana’s blood pressure to rise.

  But at least Trudy would leave Julia with a good impression. Maybe someday Julia would even ask Trudy to join her book club.

  That would be sublime, she thought.

  As Trudy navigated the nearly empty streets of Mercer Island and passed Ellis Park, the rain turned to sleet, making it all but impossible to see. Dana had picked Trudy up for the meeting with Christine and so was forced to allow Trudy to drive her new BMW, but not without a lecture on taking care she didn’t put it into a ditch.

  “I’ll go over every inch of that car tomorrow in the daylight,” Dana had warned. “So be extra careful. Don’t get yourself killed, or I’ll kill you myself.”

  It was 10:29 when Trudy finally pulled into the far end of the library’s parking lot on 88th Ave. SE. The building’s front entrance faced away from the street, and so she pulled up to the two handicapped parking spaces right next to the front door.

  She paused before pulling in. After all, she wasn’t handicapped, and her sense of right and wrong made her consider whether to break the law. But there was no one around, and it was the closest parking spot to the front door; that meant a lot in this weather.

  She pulled all the way in, but kept the engine running and the heat flowing. A glance around her told her Julia wasn’t there yet. The parking lot was empty. She checked her watch. It was now 10:30 on the dot. So, where the heck was Julia?

  A sliver of light peeked out from the back of the library’s main room. Was it a security light? Or was Julia waiting inside? Julia was a member of the library board and probably had a key. But if she was inside, where was her car?

  Trudy peered through the BMW’s windshield, wondering if she should get out and try the door. Then something caught her attention. There was a white piece of paper taped to one of the glass front doors, and it was flapping in the wind. Trudy peered more closely at it. It looked like a small envelope. Maybe it was a note from Julia.

  “Damn!” she cursed.

  With her luck, she’d have to get wet, only to find out that Julia had cancelled. Well, she thoug
ht, better to get this over with so I can go back and report to Dana.

  Trudy turned off the engine, pulled up the hood of her coat and threw open her door. She stepped out of the car right into a puddle.

  “Damn!” she cursed again. This better be worth it.

  She slammed the car door and ran for the overhang. Two large pillars stood in the way, and she had to step around them. Once on the other side, she was in the entrance portico and safe from the rain. But it was still icy cold, and a shiver snaked its way down her spine, sending chills to every extremity.

  She was about to grab the note, when a sound made her stop short. She turned and peered into the parking lot.

  The pole lamps illuminated Dana’s car while it sat quietly in the parking lot, little piles of ice crystals forming around the tires. The portico was only lit by a small light above the double glass doors, casting much of the area right around her in darkness. She felt suddenly vulnerable.

  Time to get this over with.

  She turned and stepped up to the door. A small envelope was taped to one of the glass panels. It had Dana’s name printed in small, careful lettering. With a gloved hand, Trudy removed the envelope and opened it. A small, folded piece of paper was tucked inside. It read:

  Ain’t karma a bitch?

  “What?” Trudy said out loud.

  The answer came in the form of a soft, but distinct rustle. She spun around to find the hulking shadow of a man behind her, his hand raised above her head.

  “No!” she screamed.

  With a downward swing, something slammed into her forehead, sending a searing pain through to her brain. She crumpled to the pavement, and the note slipped from her fingers and fluttered away. She landed with her cheek resting on the cold concrete. Her eyes were open and warm blood pooled around her face. She tried to take a deep breath, but it got caught in her throat.