Assignment Denver: The Case of the Eccentric Heiress: Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mystery One (Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  LUCEY PHILLIPS

  Assignment Denver:

  | The Case of the Eccentric Heiress

  JAE LOVEJOY COZY MYSTERY ONE

  Copyright 2017 Lucey Phillips.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author's Note

  | One

  Mitch Evans smiled too much. Maybe he was hitting on me. Or maybe he was just trying to butter me up so I’d write a nice story about his microbrewery. But something about the way he kept grinning, and seriously overdoing the eye contact, was making me uncomfortable.

  “Try this one,” he said, sliding a five-ounce tasting glass of Lost Trail toward me.

  I took a sip. I had to fight the urge to spit it back into the glass. “Mmm hoppy!” I said, trying to sound sincere. I attempted to camouflage my pucker by licking my lips. The ale was way too bitter for me. I was a coffee girl anyway—I’d never been into alcohol that much.

  Mitch released a startlingly loud, “Ha!” then said, “Maybe IPAs aren’t your thing. Let’s try something darker.”

  I guess I wasn’t as smooth as I thought.

  I shook my head. “I don’t need to taste any more, thanks. The story is going to be more about the people and the process. It’s not a review of your beer.”

  Mitch nodded and smiled again. “Right, right. I gotcha. Usually everyone wants me to shut up about the brewing process and start handing out samples. This is actually a nice change of pace.”

  Mitch ran his fingers through his auburn curls. He was a stereotypical Colorado guy—lean and muscular with a relaxed posture to match his two-day stubble and the slouchy fit of his jeans and t-shirt.

  I looked over to Colin, the frustratingly quiet photographer who was accompanying me on this assignment. It was our first time working together, and so far, during the first two days of our trip, he’d said about four words to me.

  When I tried to make eye contact with him, to maybe share an inside “This is boring, let’s get out of here” look, he raised his camera and fixed his gaze on its tiny digital screen.

  Mitch smiled at me—again—and asked if I had any other questions.

  But no amount of pseudo-hipster charm from this beer guy could rescue the story at this point. I couldn’t define it, but it just didn’t have that special something that my readers and editors want from the travel stories I write.

  I work for Alt News America—a surprisingly successful startup news network that is completely online. In the five years since its launch, ANA has been a darling of Wall Street and one of the first serious challengers to the 24-hour cable news network model.

  And I was lucky enough to be its first travel reporter. My column, “Assignment America,” wasn’t just about things to see and do in a new place. It profiled interesting, quirky people who embodied the unique spirit of each place.

  I don’t want to sound like an egomaniac, but my travel column was becoming kind of a big deal. I even had my picture and headline on the front page of the website. It was the bottom of the front page, but still.

  Tiny craft breweries have popped up everywhere lately, but Mission Lager House seemed different. For one thing, it’s run by the son of the most famous quarterback in Denver Broncos history. And for another, we’re in Denver, Colorado, close to a little brewery called Coors. How could I not write about beer?

  But, so far, this interview was a snooze.

  I slid my notebook and audio recorder into the canvas messenger bag on my hip as I stood from the bar stool.

  “I think we have everything,” I said to Mitch.

  Then I turned to Colin. “You good?”

  Colin nodded without taking his gaze away from his camera screen.

  “Thank you,” I said as I extended my hand to Mitch. “I’ll be in town a few more days. Is it okay if I call or we stop by another day? Sometimes I have follow-up questions, and we might need more photos.”

  “Sure, sure,” Mitch said. “You’re welcome back anytime. We’re having a little launch party for our new seasonal IPA, Snowmelt, tomorrow at eight. You’re welcome to stop by.”

  I nodded, trying to be polite without committing to anything. “Thanks.”

  Colin followed me out of the microbrewery’s tasting room, through the bar and restaurant area where a couple lunchtime patrons lingered, and out the front door, where we both squinted in the sunshine.

  I said goodbye to the two employees we’d met, Robyn, the middle-aged bartender, and Autumn, the waitress who wore a floor-length peasant skirt and dread locks with beads in them.

  Colin nodded when Autumn called out goodbye to him.

  As we headed out the door, I zipped up my black wool moto-style jacket and wrapped a gray knit scarf around my neck. Even though it was officially spring, the weather was still cold at this elevation.

  I’d recently had my long blonde hair cut to a short, asymmetrical bob, and dyed from a honey color to platinum. I thought it was cute. And it was definitely easier to take care of, but I couldn’t get used to feeling the cold air on my exposed neck.

  Colin had put on his dark Ray-Bans and slung his camera around his neck. We both stood there, on a sidewalk corner in Denver’s Mission Key neighborhood, looking around. This was yet another industrial-turned-artsy rejuvenated neighborhood. I looked around at the brick buildings.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked Colin. “That’s definitely not enough for my story.”

  Colin shrugged. “I got some okay stuff.”

  He was no help.

  I started walking down the block, away from where we’d parked our rental car. I was hoping I’d see something interesting—something worthy of a national story, something that was quintessential Denver. My deadline was in three days, and I definitely wasn’t going to try to write two thousand compelling words about that beer guy, even if I padded it with a bunch of background about his famous father.

  I didn’t have much to write about on that front anyway. Mitch had been strangely quiet when I’d asked him about growing up with his dad and what his dad thought of the brewery.

  I’d decided not to pry—that story had probably been done to death anyway. Besides, if I wanted to push, prod, and manipulate people into sharing more than they wanted to, I’d have stayed in news reporting.

  The next storefront on the block, just south of Mission Lager House, looked like a junk shop. The peeling wooden sign above the doorway said “Antiquities” in plain black letters over a field of what probably used to be red. I stopped walking and looked into the window, which was coated in dust and grime.

  The place looked like one huge fire trap. At first, all I could see were brown, jumbled masse
s. But when I looked carefully, I could see the piles had themes. One mountain of junk looked like a collection of mining equipment. There were pans, screens, carbide lamps, pickaxes, and lots of rusty and twisted metal tools I didn’t recognize.

  Another pile was nothing but cowboy hats. The hill of junk closest to the window was made of toys. There were stuffed bears, wagons, a small wicker baby-doll stroller, green metal army men, and china dolls with chipped faces.

  “I bet there’s a story in here,” I said to Colin. I’d already learned not to wait for his reply, or lack thereof. I walked into the store, holding the door open for him to follow.

  The inside of the shop smelled like dust and mildew. There was probably a leak in the roof or a pipe somewhere. The musty smell was almost overwhelming and made me want to leave. But, I decided to stay when I thought about those picker reality shows, the shows where people strike it rich finding rare antiques among piles of junk in neglected attics, garages, and sheds. There had to be a good story in here.

  “Hello?” I called out, expecting a shopkeeper to appear.

  The rough wooden floorboards creaked under my feet. Behind me I heard the soft, almost imperceptible click of Colin’s camera. He was a real photographer. He took the photos that needed to be taken, regardless of whether they had any hope of seeing publication.

  My eyes took a long time adjusting from the bright, sunny outdoors to this dim shop, illuminated only by the small amount of sunlight that filtered through the dirt on the windows and the many objects stacked close to them.

  “Hello?” I said it louder this time.

  I was answered by two loud thumps and a hollow metal slamming noise, so severe that it made me jump. Then more silence.

  I turned back and looked at Colin. His eyes were wide as he held his camera in front of him, ready.

  I wanted to call out a third time, but my throat had suddenly become dry.

  “Do you think we should go?” I asked Colin, my voice just a hoarse whisper.

  He shrugged.

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. Until now, I’d done my own photography for the travel stories. I wasn’t a talented photographer, but I’d learned a few basics in journalism school. Somehow, the photo editors at ANA had been able to crop my photos and tinker with the digital settings until the pictures were passable.

  I knew that the company’s investment in a professional photographer for my stories was a sign of their confidence in me. I didn’t want to mess it up.

  The slamming noise had come from the back of the shop. In my mind, I waffled between looking through the piles of junk, hoping an employee would appear with a plausible explanation for the noises, and investigating the noises myself.

  Eventually, I gave in to my curiosity. I did have almost a decade of news reporting in my past, after all.

  “Over here,” I whispered to Colin as I waved him in my direction and tiptoed toward the back of the shop. To our left were more piles of decrepit merchandise, with loaded, sagging bookshelves lining the wall. On the right was the sales counter and cash register—a manual cash register. It had no batteries or cords, just buttons, gears, and dials.

  Colin followed me through an open doorway in the back. A hallway led to a stairwell in front of us, a metal door to the left, and a partly-closed “Staff Only” door to the right.

  Colin shouted, “Anyone home?”

  It startled me. Not only was that more syllables than I’d heard him use in, well, ever, but it was a much louder sound than I thought his diminutive stature, cloaked in metrosexual grooming, was capable of.

  The metal door to my left reminded me of the slamming sound I’d heard earlier. But the mostly-closed wooden office door to my right, with its oddly-shaped shadows cast against the hallway wall and floor, felt like it was calling out to me.

  I tiptoed toward the office, Colin close on my heels. I could hear his soft breathing and smell his cologne. When I was facing the door, I rested my fingertips on its varnished wood and leaned close to peer through the two-inch opening. I saw one grimy bunny slipper resting on its tail, its nose in the air and its ears parallel to the ground.

  The only way gravity would allow a slipper to rest in that position is if there were a foot inside it. I turned toward Colin. He was pale but still holding his camera at the ready. I opened the door.

  On the floor, there was an old woman lying on her back. Her blonde wig was askew, revealing wisps of gray hair sprouted from a mostly-bald, pale white scalp. Her eyes were open, turned in the direction of a row of metal ivory-colored filing cabinets.

  The woman’s elbows were bent, with her hands near her shoulders. Her lips were closed, and the muscles around her neck and throat appeared taught.

  No part of her body moved—not the woman’s eyes, or fingers, or nostrils. Her chest didn’t rise and fall.

  “Dead,” Colin whispered. Then he added, “Strangled.”

  I looked at her neck. How had I missed that? There were two narrow red abrasions around it—like friction burn. It was as if a thin rope had been wound around her neck and pulled tight.

  Colin took a step around me and raised his camera. He seemed to forget I was there as he cocked his elbow inches from my nose, aiming the lens at the woman’s face.

  Then there was the soft click of his digital camera capturing an image.

  I immediately raised my hand and swatted Colin’s elbow. There was a dead woman in front of us, and his first instinct was to photograph her. That seemed somehow vulgar to me.

  “We gotta call the police,” I said, stepping back toward the door. I took one quick look around the office before I left. There was a waist-high safe on the floor to the right. Its door appeared to be shut tight.

  To the left was an old, scuffed and watermarked secretary’s desk with the rolltop closed and several deep scratches around the keyhole. The drawers of the metal filing cabinets directly in front of us were closed, too. Their metal locks were flush with the surface, the keyholes situated horizontally.

  On top of nearly every flat surface were more mounds of dusty junk. I noticed a stack of vintage metal lunch boxes, Manila folders of papers, and disheveled rows of coins in plastic cases.

  I took another step away. My proximity to the dead body made me feel a creepy-crawly sensation on my skin and even down through my muscles and bones. Even though it would have been impossible to smell anything over the dust and mildew odor that saturated the air, I imagined a stink of death creeping around that office.

  I’d seen dead bodies before—several times—when I had worked as a news reporter. There were car accidents, drownings, and murders. But I’d never been so close to one. I looked at the woman’s open eyes, milky and empty. I started to feel sick.

  Colin followed me as I spun out of the office door, walked quickly down the hallway, and headed toward the metal door at the opposite end.

  “Wait,” he said, as I leaned my hip into the door handle. I pushed it open and fell back against it as I stepped outside, crisp air filling my lungs and bright sunlight nearly blinding me.

  “There could be prints on that door handle,” Colin said softly.

  I looked down. Now my backside was leaning against it.

  “Oops,” I said between gulps of fresh air.

  He shrugged.

  We were on some sort of loading dock—a concrete platform at least five feet above street level. There were no railings or stairs. Below us was the rough, patched blacktop surface of the alley.

  My stomach quickly settled as the crawling sensation left my skin. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not good with smells. Or, you know, bodies.”

  “Well,” Colin said as he glanced up and down the alleyway. “You’re a travel reporter.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Was that an insult? He looked away. Then I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  | Two

  Rebecca Chamberlain didn’t look old enough to be a detective. But after a lifetime of listening
to people gush about my “baby face,” and ask me my height—five-two, thank you very much—I knew better than to comment on her appearance.

  We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the antique shop. Forensics officers were working inside, and a coroner’s van had just pulled up. Detective Chamberlain hunched over her tablet and, without looking at me, asked me the same question for the third time.

  “Why did you walk into the office?”

  I exhaled an exaggerated sigh. I’d never been good with authority.

  “We heard a noise. Nobody was there, and it’s the middle of the day,” I said. “I don’t know, I’m nosey, I guess.”

  “And you say you’re a reporter?”

  “Yeah, well, sort of. I’m a travel reporter. I thought the shop looked like an interesting place, you know? I thought there would be something good to write about.”

  Detective Chamberlain snorted. “I guess so. How did you know Mrs. Malone?”

  “I told you. I didn’t know her. I didn’t have an appointment. I just walked in looking for a story.”

  “What were you doing in the neighborhood?”

  “I was at that brewery doing an interview,” I said, as I waved a hand toward the entrance of Mission Lager House.

  That’s when I saw a uniformed police officer leading Mitch out of his business and toward a patrol car. Mitch wasn’t handcuffed. When the officer opened the door to the back of the vehicle, Mitch climbed inside.

  “Where are they taking Mitch?” I asked the detective.

  “How do you know Mr. Evans?”

  “I just told you—I interviewed him. I emailed him a few weeks ago to do a story on his brewery. Today was the first time I met him.”

  I glanced up the sidewalk. The detective’s partner, a heavyset balding man, was questioning Colin. They were just out of range for me to hear them. I could see Colin was leaning back with his hands in his pockets. The officer had his notepad in his hand, but he wasn’t writing anything down.

  I shook my head and huffed out another sigh. It sure didn’t look like Colin was getting worked over the way I was.