Zukie's Burglar: Zukie Merlino Mysteries, #1

By Cynthia E. Hurst

Having lost both her husband and her job, Zukie Merlino has time on her hands and a mystery to solve. Night after night, someone is searching the empty house next door, whose elderly owner died following an unusually explosive Fourth of July. A second death in the house brings out all Zukie's detective instincts and with the help of her reluctant accomplice Lou, she launches her own investigation using her wits, her wigs and a coffee cake or two.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Plane View Books
• Release date: Feb 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502232823

Cynthia E. Hurst

Cynthia E. Hurst is the author of two mystery series set in present-day Seattle, the R&P Labs Mysteries and the Zukie Merlino Mysteries, and the Silver and Simm and Milestone agency series, which both take place in Victorian England. Like her characters, Cynthia grew up in Seattle, then earned a degree in journalism and worked on several newspapers and magazines in the US and UK. The R&P books are based on her time spent in the small research lab where her parents both worked, and many of the R&P staff's projects are ones actually undertaken by the lab. The Zukie books were inspired by her Italian relatives. She now lives in Oxfordshire, the setting for the two Victorian series. She is also the author of the Time Traveller trilogy, which visits various bits of English history, and which stemmed from an unfortunate incident.

Book preview

Zukie’s Burglar

Cynthia E. Hurst

––––––––

Zukie Merlino Mysteries 1

Copyright © 2014  Cynthia E. Hurst

All Rights Reserved

Plane View Books

Cover photo by the author

––––––––

Beacon Hill is a real Seattle neighborhood, but the characters and events in this book are wholly fictional and do not depict any actual persons, businesses or organizations.

Table of Contents

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

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

The way Zukie saw it, if the shrimp had been fresher, she never would have been in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and the murder never would have been solved.

But as it happened, the shrimp had caused an intestinal crisis and when it subsided, Zukie found herself unable to go back to sleep. Not one to ever waste anything, including time, she decided to put together a plum coffee cake rather than lie there for hours listening to Lou’s snoring and the rumbling of her own stomach.

Pulling her pink terrycloth bathrobe around her and shoving her feet into fluffy pink slippers, she padded into the kitchen, took the mixing bowl and spoon from the cupboard and began assembling the ingredients for the cake. Flour, sugar, baking powder, cooking oil, an egg, milk, cinnamon and some of those beautiful juicy plums she’d had her eye on for weeks. Once they were ripe, it had been the work of five minutes to slip across the lawn to the back yard of the empty house next door and fill her pockets.

She began combining the ingredients, unhampered by anything as mundane as a recipe. Zukie had learned to cook from her Ma, whose book learning had stopped early, and Ma had always told her that sight, smell and common sense were as useful as any printed recipe. Since Ma had been able to whip up a mouth-watering banquet for twenty or more people with one hand behind her back, Zukie saw no reason to doubt her. Besides, cookbooks just took up space in the kitchen that could be used for something more useful.

She mixed up a smooth batter, studded with pieces of fresh plum, spooned it into a cake pan, sprinkled the crumb topping over it, shoved the pan in the oven and set the timer. Ma had never used a timer, either, but Zukie knew her limitations. There had been too many occasions in her early married life when she had been side-tracked and forgotten about something baking in the oven, only to find a dish reduced to charcoal. Eddie hadn’t lost his temper, he never did, just looked at her like a dog who had been kicked. That had been enough to prompt her to go out and buy a reliable timer.

As it ticked, Zukie sat at the kitchen table and thought, as she often did, about her late husband. She missed him, more than she cared to admit. Eddie had been a quiet man – not that he’d had much choice – and very calm. Nine months on, that was what she remembered most. Nothing ever seemed to upset him or make him angry, not even when the doctor shook his head sadly and delivered the diagnosis of terminal cancer. Since Zukie herself was like a firework perpetually on the verge of ignition, she had never understood this attitude. She had certainly given the doctors a piece of her mind when they advised her that nothing more could be done for Eddie. Palliative care, they had called it. Washing their hands of him, she called it, and she’d fought to the bitter end.

At one point, Paul, her oldest brother, had told her he reckoned his brother-in-law was dying just to get a little peace and quiet, and Zukie had snapped back a response she later regretted. Eddie had been a good husband and a good dad to their daughter and she missed him.

To get rid of the lump in her throat, she turned and gazed out the kitchen window. She couldn’t see much, since it was dark outside, but she knew what was there. The driveway leading to the garage, a chain link fence between her house and the next one, and then the other house. Narrow walks leading on either side of the fence to the houses’ respective back yards.

Zukie always left her kitchen curtains open so she wouldn’t miss anything, but the neighbor drew his. At least he had when he lived there, but he had died a couple of months previously. The house had now been sold by his children and was empty, awaiting its new occupants. So the curtains were gone and if she really squinted hard, as she was doing now, she could see inside the house. 

And there, in an empty house at a quarter past three in the morning, was a light.

Zukie nearly jumped out of her chair. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she certainly believed in burglars, and she didn’t want one prowling around in the house next door to her. She took another look and decided it was a flashlight, being held by someone walking through the house, and obviously they had no business being there. That meant something needed to be done about it.

It never occurred to her to be frightened, but she thought it might be a good idea to go prepared, so she took her marble rolling pin from its cradle and quietly tiptoed to the back door, easing it open.

Holding the rolling pin in one hand and the stair rail in the other, she stepped out into the cool September night, negotiated the five steps down to the lawn and crossed it silently. The light bobbed around in the dark house. Standing on the damp grass, shivering in her bathrobe and slippers, Zukie took stock. She couldn’t get into the house unless the burglar had been considerate enough to leave the door open. She didn’t think breaking a window was advisable. If she waited, the burglar might get into a position where she could belt him with the rolling pin, but again, that was doubtful. Besides, the coffee cake would be done shortly. She began to regret her hasty decision, and slowly crept back toward her own house.  

She went back up the steps and into the kitchen, where to her surprise, Lou was sitting at the table, wearing his pajamas, robe and slippers. He yawned widely and scratched his head, which was covered with curly gray hair.

Where the heck have you been? he asked. I heard the back door shut.

Zukie scowled at him. She had reluctantly invited Lou to share her house after Eddie died, on the grounds that a second cousin with a solid bank account, one who had been recently widowed and couldn’t boil an egg, was a better companion than an unpredictable lodger. It was certainly better than rattling around in the house by herself with no one to talk to, something she had no intention of doing. Family was family, after all, and so Lou had moved into her spare bedroom. They had got along surprisingly well so far, but that didn’t mean he was entitled to grill her about her nocturnal activities.

She set the rolling pin down slowly enough for him to get the message. There was a light in that empty house next door. I thought it might be a burglar.

This burglar say he was hungry? He nodded toward the oven.

No, I was making a coffee cake. It was the shrimp.

After six months, Lou was used to following Zukie’s disjointed thought processes but this one left even him flummoxed.

Shrimp?

Bad stomach, Zukie said shortly. You obviously didn’t have the same problem.

The timer pinged and she took the coffee cake out of the oven, setting the pan on a cooling rack. The top was golden brown and the aroma of plums and cinnamon filled the small kitchen. Want a piece?

Sure. It smells good.

Just a sec. I want to see if he’s still there.

Were you going to clobber him with the rolling pin? Lou asked curiously.

If I’d had a chance, yeah. Zukie peered out of the window. Lou, look.

Lou looked over her shoulder. What am I looking at?

The light. The way he’s holding the flashlight, you can see his face.

Lou squinted and then shook his head.

I keep telling you, Zuke, you need to wear your glasses. That’s not a him. It’s a woman.

Zukie took another look. Lou was right; through the uncurtained window, the flashlight briefly illuminated a face too delicate to be a man’s, with some curly dark hair escaping from under a black stocking cap.

You know her? Lou asked. Zukie had lived in the same house for more than thirty years and only the most determined neighbors escaped her attention. She looked again, just as the intruder turned and her face disappeared from view.

She looks kind of familiar but I don’t know who she is. But why would I? Nobody that I know goes around breaking into houses, especially empty houses. Why bother when there’s nothing to steal?

It might be someone looking for place to sleep.

No, she’d have gone to the church. Father Joe lets people sleep in the church hall if they haven’t got anywhere else to go. He’s real good that way.

If she’s not from this neighborhood and she’s not Catholic, how the heck would she know that? Lou asked. Besides, if she was looking for a place to sleep, she wouldn’t be sneaking around that house at three in the morning wearing black clothes and a stocking cap. She’d have laid down somewhere and gone to sleep.

You got an answer for everything, don’t you? How do I know what she’s doing there? She’s up to no good, that’s for sure.

Lou shrugged his shoulders. Maybe we should call the cops.

Are you nuts? By the time they got here, she’d be gone. Zukie returned to the window. Hey, she’s already gone. The light’s gone, anyway. That’s what I get for listening to your dumb questions.

I didn’t hear a car start up, Lou said, so she can’t have gone very far. Why don’t you go out on the street in your nightie and see if you can catch her? I bet you can run fast enough.

Zukie had a fleeting vision of Lou stretched out on the kitchen floor after she’d beaned him with the rolling pin, but discarded that as counterproductive.

I’ll check when it gets light and see if she broke a window or anything to get in, she said. Get a plate and I’ll cut you a piece of coffee cake.

––––––––

THE NEXT morning, Zukie was up with the lark, or at least with the sparrows. She threw them a handful of coffee cake crumbs out the back door and watched as they swooped down to grab them. A little like family members, she reflected; always ready to pounce if they thought there was something good going, but not so quick off the mark at other times.

She poured another cup of coffee and helped herself to a second piece of coffee cake, wondering if she could harvest another bagful of plums. The nocturnal prowler gave her a legitimate reason for going next door, of course. She was simply being a good neighbor and checking to see if the property was all right. And it would be a crime to let perfectly good fruit go to waste when there were so many hungry people in the world.

Having justified her actions, she buttoned up her cardigan against the morning chill and went out the back door. The house next door looked forlorn, with no lights on, no radio blaring, nobody shouting to kids to get a move on, the way a house should be in the morning. Zukie walked cautiously across her own lawn, looking over the chain link fence. There was no movement at all from the house. Maybe the burglar’s asleep, she thought. Or maybe Lou’s right, and she took off. But why would she bother to burgle an empty house in the first place?

Having ascertained that no one was inside and therefore not likely to spot her, she made her way around her garage and crossed to the walk that led to the other house’s backyard. She marched firmly down it, deciding that acting stealthily would just look suspicious. She rehearsed her excuse, in case anyone stopped her. The owner’s kids asked me to keep an eye on the house while it was empty; there are so many break-ins these days. And since they weren’t going to be using the plums, they said I was welcome to pick a few.

She reached the plum tree and looked up. It was loaded with purple plums, perfectly ripe and just begging to be canned, made into jam or baked into cakes. Zukie licked her lips and reached up to the nearest branch.

Five minutes later, her cardigan pockets were bulging and she had tucked a few more plums into the pockets of her jeans. Walking a little awkwardly because of her load, she retraced her steps and arrived back at her own door.

What the heck you got there? Lou asked. You look like you got some kind of lumpy disease.

Button it, Zukie advised him. She began to remove plums from her pockets and placed them in a bowl.

Is that where those plums in the coffee cake came from?

What do you think?

What I think is that you been stealing the neighbors’ plums, Lou said. Good thing I’m not the type to tell on you. But you might want to go to confession. For some reason, Father Joe seems to think stealing’s a sin.

So tell him about it, Zukie retorted. I’m not going to waste God’s time confessing to grabbing a couple handfuls of plums that would have just gone rotten if I’d left them. Think of all the starving children in Africa.

She was well aware Lou was more religious that she was. Most people were. She could see him wrestling with his conscience versus another plum coffee cake, and as expected, the coffee cake won.

OK, I won’t say anything, although I don’t get how you raiding a plum tree and making a coffee cake in Seattle is going to help somebody who’s starving in Africa. You see anybody at that house while you were stealing their plums?

Zukie gave him credit for realizing her primary goal had been reconnaissance. Nope. Nothing at all.

Your burglar must have gone home to get some sleep.

I don’t think she found anything. The house has been empty ever since old Frank Martinelli died back in July. Maybe a couple pieces of furniture left, that’s all. You ready for breakfast?

Yeah, I’m starving. Thanks.

Lou settled himself at the table and Zukie got out the frying pan. She put three slices of bacon in the pan and when they were sizzling nicely, shoved them to one side and broke two eggs into the bacon grease. As the eggs fried, she dropped bread into the toaster. Lou sighed with contentment.

You’re a gem, Zuke, he said.

Zukie agreed. She freely admitted she had her faults, but she loved to feed people and Lou was a grateful recipient. She wondered what his wife – whom she had not known very well – had been like in the kitchen. Of course, she hadn’t been Italian, so there was every chance she couldn’t tell one end of a spatula from the other. It showed a lack of judgement on Lou’s part, although he seemed to miss her as much as she missed Eddie. And judging from Lou’s rounded shape, he hadn’t gone hungry. Zukie slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate, put the buttered toast beside them and set it in front of him.

You want coffee?

Sure.

Zukie filled two cups and sat down at the table across from him. She took advantage of the fact his mouth was full of bacon and eggs to say, What do you think we should do about that burglar? She might be planning to camp out in the house or something. 

Don’t think burglars usually pitch tents, Lou said through the mouthful. They go in, grab things and get out.

No, you know what I mean. There’s nothing to grab in there, so she might have something else planned. Sometimes they move into an empty house and it’s really tough to get them out again, I’ve heard. They think they got rights.

Rights to someone else’s house? No way.

So it’s up to us to make sure they don’t try anything funny.

Lou put his fork down. There were times when he wondered whether being fed tasty food on a regular basis was worth the trouble of untangling Zukie’s convoluted reasoning.

Why is it up to us? There’s cops for that sort of thing. That’s what we pay taxes for.

Zukie didn’t answer. She planted her elbows on the table and looked wistful, or at least that was the look she was aiming for.

Truth is, Lou, I’m really bored since I quit working. And this burglar thing is a mystery, like a whodunit book.

Doesn’t somebody usually end up getting murdered in those?

Yeah, but it won’t be us. We’re way too smart for that. We’ll just keep an eye on that house tonight and see if anybody turns up.

And if they do, then what?

To be honest, Zukie hadn’t got past the part of putting the house under surveillance. She rested her chin on her fist and considered her options.

We’ll just try to see what they’re doing. Whether they’re stealing something.

Lou closed his eyes and fantasized about renting a small apartment, just big enough for himself and his prized collection of model airplanes. Peaceful, quiet, with no lunatic cousin trying to drag him into tackling a mysterious burglar in someone else’s house. Zukie waved the coffee pot under his nose and he abandoned his daydream.

Yeah, OK, he said. We can watch. But don’t go over there or nothing, not without me.

I wouldn’t dream of it, Zukie said sweetly. More coffee?

––––––––

ZUKIE took what she liked to think of as a power nap in the afternoon, in preparation for the night’s activities. She needed it, after her interrupted sleep of the previous night, plus the time and effort spent battling through her shopping that morning.

She’d started by dropping by the store where she’d bought the shrimp and lodging her complaint. The fish counter manager, who had known her for years, listened sympathetically, but when she got to the more graphic details of how she’d been affected, he held up a hand.

That’s fine, Zukie, I believe you. I’ve got some very nice black cod here; how about a couple of fillets on the house, just to make up for your problems?

Zukie pretended to deliberate. OK, she said finally. Thanks. And they better be fresh.

If they were any fresher, they’d still be swimming.

OK.

He wrapped the cod in several layers of paper, placed it in a plastic bag and popped that into Zukie’s insulated shopping bag. She nodded her appreciation and set off for the supermarket.

This was always a challenge. It wasn’t that the store was crowded or the prices outrageous – although she claimed both were true – but she felt obliged to point out to the fruit and vegetable produce manager that it was a waste of good herbs to decorate the displays with parsley that would be thrown out afterwards, and that if his stupid sprinkler system caught her one more time, there was going to be trouble.

Give me a break, Mrs M, he said to her. Like I keep telling you, it’s not me; it’s the head office. Sprinklers and decorative parsley. That’s what they want, that’s what they get. They pay my wages.

"The heck they do. It’s customers like me that pay your wages and we won’t keep coming