Murder at Home: Det. Lt. Nick Storie Mysteries, #11

By C. D. Moulton

A wealthy woman is murdered in her home. It was supposed to look like a burglary gone bad, but Nick isn't fooled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. D. Moulton
• Release date: Jun 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201481582

Book preview

Prologue

Sam, I don't know what to do anymore. She's going to leave that place to that damn cancer fund thing, and I know it! Brenda Compton wailed. "It's all so damned stupid! They're just conning her! They'll get everything! It's not fair!"

Sam Gordon, her latest live-in gigolo, grunted.

She stared at the fancy clock over her marble fireplace and looked exasperated (but he was reading the sports and didn't see that pose) as she cried. "Oh, crap! It's almost six already, and Henri's will close! Five minutes. I can make it if I hurry.

He'll just have to stay open 'til I'm through.

She rushed out, jumped into her red Jaguar, and screamed out of the long curved drive.

Brenda rushed into Henri's front door at one minute to six. Henri Le Paris (Actually, Henry Mathews) greeted her with, "Ah! Zee Mlle. Cohmptohn! Ess no necessity for zee great rusheeng! For you, we weel stay opain for zee evening! Ees no neecessity for to hurry! Relax! Enjoy! Henri's ees at your sairvace!"

The accent was as phony as the rest of him.

Arlene Compton looked at the mantel clock, and sighed. Already almost six o'clock, and Gail was off today. She was alone in that monstrosity she called home for the night. She usually liked to cook, but wasn't much in the mood tonight, so she'd order something from Dockside Harbor. They had excellent food, if a bit overpriced.

Obscenely overpriced, if the whole truth be told, but so was everything else, these days.

She went into the hall to the phone, looked at the front door, gasped, picked up the phone to punch 9-1-1, and crouched down behind the table.

There was a noise to one side.

Sam Gordon smirked at Brenda's back as she slammed out of the house. She always put things off until the last possible second, then rushed around in a frenzy. She never planned anything.

Five to six. She'd be at Henri's fifteen minutes or so. Four minutes each way. Say twenty five minutes to do it.

He knew which four numbers opened her little wall safe, just not what order, but that was plenty of time! He ran up the stairs, slid the picture aside, and started work. He had some trouble, and it was taking too long! He was afraid she'd come in and catch him, any second! Left, then right. Had he done that? Okay, right then left. Damn!

He looked at his wristwatch, and sighed. Just six oh three. He was so nervous it seemed like hours!

The safe came open, finally, and he peered in.

What the hell!?!

Henry/Henri rolled his eyes at the fancy crystal chandelier hanging over the candies case. That damned self-centered airheaded broad would probably keep him there an hour, and buy fifty lousy bucks worth of nothing. Six ten, already. He'd have to rush to make his date, and he had to deliver that macaroon crap to the Wellingtons, but that was on his way. Maybe Darlene would – he'd call her. Maybe this pain in the ass would make up her mind in less than her usual half hour.

She surprised him by quickly ordering a large box of Bon Bon Saliere Supremes for her mother, carelessly handing him a platinum card and waiting to sign the two hundred ten dollar (plus twenty bucks special delivery fee) receipt.

Good show! he thought as she swept out to her fancy Jag. After all, they only cost him like twelve bucks ten a box, delivered all the way from Versailles! The Compton place was only a few blocks out of his way, on his way home from the Wellingtons, so maybe tonight would actually turn out passably pleasant, despite the aggravating day!

Brenda went directly to the den, but Sam wasn't there. He came in, after about half a minute, noted it was 6:14 and sighed. He'd figured the time just right. It was a pity her jewels and cash weren't in that safe. He'd have to find where she hid them.

Then he'd dump the self-centered, spoiled, perverted bitch!

Nine one one. Emergency, Danyce Rauls said, into the microphone.

There's someone in my house! a hoarse voice whispered, This is Arlene Compton, number seven Jaqueline Place, the Pointe. I just came...!

There was the sound of a shot, a gasp, "You! What did...?"

Then another shot. The phone went dead.

Chapter one

Well, Nick! You're right on time! Sgt. Marsha Blevins, aide to Capt. James Paddy James, Violent Crimes Division (and actual power in the station) greeted Det. Lt. Nathaniel Nick Storie as he punched the clock at 5:54. Jim (Det. Lt. Jim Hill, day shift) decided he'd check on that H&R witness on his way home. We've got that one tagged, but every little eye witness helps!

Her phone buzzed. She picked it up, and yelled, Nick! Nine one one! Shots fired, and the phone went dead. Number seven Jaqueline The Pointe! Compton!

Nick raced for his car. Marsha was writing the info on her form, then she recorded the message that 9-1-1 received. The calling number origination was automatically recorded. 555-8430. Quickly, she checked the comp cross-list. (Mrs.) Arlene Alma Trane-Compton. Number 7 Jaqueline Place, The Pointe.

Marsha called Nick by radio to tell him there might be a gate. He asked if they had a code. She checked the code on the computer, and replied, Eight, four, three, oh.

Paddy, all six-four, 285 pounds, came from his office, the Gloom Room, and asked what was going on.

Possible B and E on The Pointe, she replied. Shots fired. You can listen to it.

She played the 9-1-1 tape for him. When she said, ...number seven Jaqueline Place... Paddy groaned aloud. Anything under 12 was the wealthiest of the wealthy. Obscenely rich people. Trouble. Big, big trouble.

I wish that was Nick's instead of Jim's! Paddy moaned. He's better with those rich people. Two crumby minutes later, and Nick would be on! I don't like the way this one's starting, already!

"Nick is on, Marsha smirked. He was here, and Jim wasn't, so I assigned it to the available officer."

If I couldn't kiss you for that I'd be reaming you a new one! Paddy replied. "In case it’s slipped what passes for your mind, I’m boss here! I give the assignments!"

Since when? Marsha asked, innocently.

Paddy grinned, and gave her the finger.

Marsha punched the Compton number, but got a busy signal. Not even call waiting, so the line had been cut.

That seemed odd. Nick would be on that point like water on the gulf.

How trite! She made a note, then clocked out and went home. Paddy left, a few minutes later. Sgt. Shirley Kiser came into the office at 6:08 to find it deserted. She dropped the daily work report on Marsha's desk, then went back out front. She wanted to tell Nick about her promotion, but it would wait.

The gate was open, so Nick went through and to the house, to find Henry Mathews standing at the front door. Nick had run into him on another case, when a woman had been poisoned with cyanide gel injected into one of his fancy candy imports.

Mathews! How long have you been here? Nick demanded. Why are you here?

What?! Oh, Stores, isn't it? Henry answered. I got here a couple of minutes ago. Got a box of two hundred dollar chocolates from daughter dearest to Mother richest.

No answer? Who opened the gate for you?

It was already open. I just drove in. I rang three times. There's no answer, but she sometimes takes awhile, when the maid's off. She is on Tuesdays. Why?

Nick rang the bell, which they could hear, tried the door, then went around the side of the house, through a little gate, and along a narrow concrete walkway with a lush podocarpus hedge to the lawn side. There were some puddles, and he automatically noticed he was leaving wet prints. There were no other prints on that walk. Only undisturbed wet leaves.

There was a torn screen door, by the pool, in back. He raced through to a door by the bath house, which he found unlocked. He stuck his head inside, and yelled, Mrs. Compton? Police!

There was complete silence. Nick yelled again, and went inside and along the hall.

She was laying crumpled against a mahogany telephone table in the hallway, about twenty feet inside the front door. There was no sign of any other struggle. Everything seemed to be in place.

He slipped on surgical gloves and picked up the phone. It was dead.

That seemed odd! He went out to the front door, and opened it. Henry was still standing there.

The lady won't be needing whatever you're delivering.  It's going to be getting hairy, around here, but I'll want to talk to you tomorrow. I'll get a statement, then.

Statement?! Oh, god!

Nick went to his car, and called for the forensics team and coroner’s van, then walked around the house on the opposite side of where he went before, to find the phone wires cut at the box.

He continued around to the pool, and went into the screen door on that side, then to inspect the broken glass in the big patio sliding door.

He shook his head, and went in to look around the ground floor rooms. Everything seemed to him normal and in order.

The forensics crew arrived. Nick explained to Dr. Klein what he'd seen and done. Frog Forest, the photographer and video man, took all his shots of the immediate scene, then Nick showed him the telephone box with the cut wires, the torn screen door, the screen door on the back, and the one he'd entered, second time around. He showed him the broken glass pane, then they went upstairs together.

Nothing obvious. They searched the pool house, then went to the eighty foot yacht at the dock, searched it, and searched the tackle house on the dock.

A new red Jaguar came into the drive, and to the house. Nick saw the lights as he crossed from the tackle house to the rear terrace, so went through, to meet a rather plain, but expensively dressed, woman in her late twenties. She had a jock-type man with her. He was dark and pretty in the face. He obviously worked out.

Who are you people? the woman demanded. What are you doing in my mother's house?

Lt. Nick Storie. Nick studied her carefully. "I am with the police. There's been a death. That we are the police should have been obvious, with those marked cars and flashing lights.

You are?

Death? What the hell are you talking about? Is Mom all right?

You are?

"I'm her daughter, Brenda. He's Sam. Samuel Gordon.

What happened?

We're trying to determine that. I hate to ask you this, but we need as quick a positive ID as possible. A woman's dead. We believe it to be Arlene Compton.

Oh, Christ! What happened?

She was shot, it would appear. Please? I know this is difficult, but will you identify?

I can't! All that blood! I can't! I suppose Sam couldn't do it?

If he knew her well, and for a time.

Christ! Sam exploded. I only met her twice! She hated the sight of me!

I'm sorry. It has to be done, unless there's some other close family member? Perhaps there is a longterm employee? A fiancee?

"He’s my fiancee! she yelled, pointing to Sam. What the hell are you talking about?!"

I mean Mrs. Compton's fiancee.

Gail! Gail's worked for her for eight or ten years! She can do it!

Oh, for Christ's sake! Go in there and identify her! Sam ordered. "It's gotta be done, and you gotta do it! It's easier if you just get it over with.

Christ! You can be the densest one...!

She gave him a stare that should have left a deep scorch mark, squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, then followed Nick inside. There was really very little blood visible. Klein had covered her and lifted back the cover cloth for the ID. Brenda said it was definitely her mother.

They then went into a sort of parlor for Nick to take their statements. She explained that she had been home, all day, only going out a few minutes before six to go to Henri's to order some of her mother's favorite candy, then went straight back home. It was exactly five to six when she left, and just at a quarter past, when she got back. She knew because she was afraid she'd be late, and Henri's would be closed. If she got there before he dropped the blinds on the door, he'd stay open for her, because she spent a lot of money for his candies.

Sam agreed that was it. He hadn't left the house until they drove over, a few minutes ago. The Heat and Pistons game was on TV, and he hadn't gotten to see the end before Brenda dragged him over to see her mother.

My god! Brenda suddenly cried, pointing to the wall by the end of the mantle. The Sarasvati! It's gone!

The what? Nick asked.

The Sarasvati. It's an old oil painting. It’s very valuable. It's been hanging right there since I was a little girl!

I see. It would appear your mother surprised an art thief, and paid with her life. I'll need a photo and listings for the painting. We'll definitely catch this one. It's not easy to dispose of art.

What if someone stole it for themselves? Brenda asked.

And killed? Very unlikely. One kills from a rage, for the profit, for love, or such. Killing for a painting one wants for himself removes the profit motive.

"Maybe it's some famous collector who paid someone to steal it? I've seen on TV that those collectors in Europe do that, all the time."

Gah! Dumb! Sam snarled. "If they're that famous, they'd hire a professional burglar, and nobody would get hurt. The insurance would pay your mom for it, and they'd forget about it. Those people don't get caught. They're careful not to ever hurt anyone so the cops won’t come after them! Get a grip!"

"That's what doesn't add up. This was a very poor excuse for an amateur theft. Another thing no professional would do is go after an obscure work. I've personally never heard of any Sarasvati. The work can't be that expensive. It will also be almost impossible to dispose of it. It's too easily identifiable.

This was premeditated coldblooded murder.

You said it was because she surprised an art thief! Brenda cried.

"I only said it was to appear to be such an art theft. I have to do a lot of work here, yet, so I'll wait with anything else. You can go or stay, but please don't interfere with the CSI crew’s job. They