Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 02 - A String of Murders

A STRING OF MURDERS

A Dressed for Death Mystery, Book 2

Darlene Franklin

Dedication: I could not have written the Dressed for Death
series without the enthusiastic support of my Oklahoma connections—my beloved son and daughter-in-law, Jaran and Shelley Franklin. Thanks for your loving support and a spare bed whenever I visit.

Copyright © 2009 by Darlene Franklin. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the author or Forget Me Not Romances.

Scripture taken from the H
oly
B
ible
, N
ew
I
nternational
V
ersion
®.
niv
®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

Printed in the U.S.A.

1

From: Elsie Holland ([email protected])

Date: Friday, April 18, 9:35 PM

To: Jessie Gaynor ([email protected])

Subject: Inheritance?

A recent edition of the Grace Gulch Herald reported that “Jessie Gaynor has returned to Grace Gulch to take over operation of local institution, Gaynor Goodies.”

I have information that suggests there was more behind your return to Grace Gulch than family feeling.

Expect further communication from me on the subject.

Saturday, April 19

One advantage of dresses from the ’30s is the low back, especially when you zip them by yourself. Not that I would need to worry about zipping tricky zippers by myself for long, thank you very much. I still want to pinch myself every time I look at the European-cut diamond my fiancé, Audie Howe, gave me last Christmas.

Let me introduce myself. I’m Cecilia Wilde, middle child of the three Wilde sisters and proprietress of Cici’s Vintage Clothing in Grace Gulch, Oklahoma. I dress in outfits from my store, like the ’30s number I have on today, for a variety of reasons. Advertising comes to mind first, but it’s also fun. I spent years pretending to be someone else. Thanks to Audie, I had finally accepted my dandelion-seed hair, as well as my eccentricities—like dressing in costume.

I twirled in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the slim line fit that flattered my figure and frou-frou sleeves that fluttered around my shoulders. A perfect spring dress for a beautiful spring day. I might even turn some heads when I walked into Gaynor Goodies this morning.

Stop kidding yourself. Only strangers unused to my habit of wearing vintage clothing would stare at me. A stop for some baked pastries had been a part of my daily ritual ever since I opened my store back in 2003. I picked up a clutch purse—barely big enough for my keys and wallet—and headed out the door to the turquoise Civic waiting in my driveway.

As expected, most of the cars in Grace Gulch’s five-block business district clustered around the entrance to Gaynor Goodies. Jessie had taken over the business from her elderly aunt early in the year. She added to its already robust success by opening half an hour earlier, setting up free Internet access for paying customers, and oh, yes—increasing the bakery’s status as gossip central.

No one could keep a secret for long in Grace Gulch.

The clock read twenty minutes to nine when I walked through the door. Instead of the usual bustle at the counter, most of the customers clustered around Jessie at one of the monitors.

Jessie Gaynor was a living example of the quality of her products. Her broad face beamed with laughter under gray-streaked brown hair kept under a sensible net. She looked like a sugar confection herself, dressed today in a candy-striped pink-and-white apron, her lip color a frosted pink leftover from an earlier era. Audie and I had secured her services to bake our wedding cake.

“Can you believe that?” Jessie’s girlish laugh, more appropriate for someone my sister Dina’s age than a middle-aged matron, pealed across the room.

“Yes, Jessie, tell us about it.” Lauren Packer, one of the town’s three lawyers, spoke up. “What really happened to Aunt Edna? Did she retire to sunny Arizona or did you do her in?” He waggled his dark eyebrows over the pointed nose and chin that had earned him the nickname “vulture.” His abrasive personality and occasional ambulance-chaser tactics didn’t help either. Only his position as the attorney of one of Grace Gulch’s leading citizens, Magda Grace Mallory, saved Lauren from general disdain.

I looked out the window at the brilliant spring sun. On a day like today, it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to move away.

Jessie laughed again. Then she looked up and noticed me for the first time.

“Sorry, folks! I’ve got customers to take care of.” She hefted her body off the chair and walked behind the display cases. “Good morning, Cici. If it’s Saturday, you must want some of my frosted sugar cookies.”

Jessie knew my weakness. I used the excuse of the many children who visited my store on weekends to buy the overly sweet cookies. But I always saved one or two for myself.

“I’ll take two dozen, please. A variety.”

She picked up cookies between sheets of waxed paper and packed them in a bakery box. I was curious about the fuss, but I wouldn’t ask. I didn’t need to. Jessie couldn’t avoid sharing a good bit of gossip.

I wasn’t disappointed.

“I received a
most
interesting e-mail when I checked my account this morning.”

Lauren rejoined us. “Someone practically accused Jessie of ulterior motives in returning home and taking over the business.” He stood beside me, pressing the coffee urn for a refill. “I don’t believe a word of it, but keep me in mind if this Elsie person writes again. That’s close to slander, if you want to pursue it.”

Vulture, I thought.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Jessie gave me change. “I don’t even know who Elsie is.”

Lauren took his cup of fresh coffee and headed for the exit. The bell on the door jingled as he left, and I was ready with my question.

“Who sent it?” I confess I enjoy a bit of gossip as much as the next person. That is, as long as it isn’t about me.

“Someone named Elsie Holland. None of us have heard of her.”

“Me neither.”

“Elsie Holland?” A familiar voice repeated the name.

Audie. My fiancé walked up to the counter and kissed me on the cheek. “Good morning. Don’t you look nice today.”

I could have stood there all day, drinking in the admiration shining in his dark blue eyes. I was glad to see him in good spirits today. Lately moodiness often darkened his countenance.

“Do you know an Elsie Holland?” Jessie’s brows shot upward.

No wonder Jessie sounded surprised. How could Audie, a recent addition to our community, know someone she didn’t?

“It’s the name of a character in one of those Miss Marple stories. An innocent young housemaid or something like that.” He made his purchase—a plain bagel with black coffee—then snapped his fingers. “
The Moving Finger
. That was the story. All about blackmail and murder.”

“Blackmail?” Jessie and I repeated the word at the same time.

She insisted on showing us the strange email she had received, which read:
I have information that suggests there was more behind your return to Grace Gulch than family feeling.

Seeing the words in black and white made me shiver. Not at all nice. I had never come across anything like it in my quiet little town.

Usually quiet, that is, if I discounted the murder that happened last fall, when the editor of the
Grace Gulch Herald
was killed during Land Run Days.

“Ggcc.com. That sounds like your e-mail address, Cici.” Audie’s thoughts had taken a different direction.

I shook my head. “No, mine is the same as Jessie’s address. Ggcoc.net, for Grace Gulch Chamber of Commerce.” I studied the email again. “You’re right, though, it does seem familiar. Grace Gulch. . .but what do the last two letters stand for?”

“And Elsie Holland?” This time Jessie voiced the question.

“My guess is that she doesn’t exist.” Audie nibbled on his bagel. “At least not under that name. It could even be a man. Young, middle aged, old. ‘The old believe everything, the middle-aged suspect everything, the young know everything.’” He loved to quote Oscar Wilde.

The hand on the clock crept closer to nine.

“I’d better run. I might just make it to my store on time.” I smiled at Audie. “See you later?”

“Count on it.”

Audie did pop by the store in the middle of the afternoon to explain he wouldn’t come over to my house that night.

“Something’s come up. I’m sure you understand.”

“That’s fine,” I assured him. It was probably something to do with the next production at the Magda Grace Mallory theater—the MGM for short. A little more than a year ago, Magda Mallory had hired Audie from Chicago to direct the new facility. We met during their first production; my sister, Dina, managed their props and she recommended that I provide costumes. The rest, as they say, was history. This spring he was directing the classic comedy,
Arsenic and Old Lace
.

After work I dropped off the day’s deposit and returned to my empty house to study my Sunday school lesson. I started to change into comfortable clothes for the evening, but before I removed my dress, I pirouetted in front of my full-length mirror, imagining a ’30s-style wedding dress. It might work. I hadn’t decided on a bridal gown yet.

A few minutes after seven, Audie phoned with a quick hello, but didn’t explain why he couldn’t visit with me. While I baked a pie for tomorrow night’s family dinner, I flipped through the channels but didn’t find anything interesting. I decided to call it a night and slipped into a comfy nightshirt adorned with smiling cows. My finger was sliding into the center of my Bible when the telephone rang. Bother. I hated the shrill sound. Maybe someday I could change the ring of my landline like I did for my cell phone. I reached over the pillows to my night table and looked at the caller ID—Audie.

“Hi, honey.” I knew I sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush. I couldn’t help it. I acted that way every time I heard his voice or was around my fiancé.

“Cici.” Audie’s suave actor’s baritone sounded as fierce as the Emperor’s in
Star Wars
. “Come down to the store.”

“Why? What’s happened?” Audie had a key to my business, of course, but what took him there after hours?

A heartbeat passed before Audie answered. “I saw a light on at your store so I went in to check it out.”

“And?”

“There’s—there’s a dead man on the floor.”