The Blue Pearl Murders: An Elliott Bay Mystery

By Jennifer Berg

November, 1956 Seattle 

A couple witness a murder in their suburban neighborhood. Inspector Riggs identifies the victim as Loretta Newcastle, a local art critic who should have been at the neighbor's dinner party at the time of her murder. Loretta was the art community's newest sensation, and she had a long list of admirer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Jul 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685121457

Jennifer Berg

Jennifer Berg is a historical mystery writer from the Pacific Northwest. She studied history at the University of Washington and worked in Seattle's tourism industry before moving, with her family, to San Diego, California. She is the author of two historical mystery series and her short stories have been featured in the 2020 and 2023 Bouchercon Anthologies. Jennifer is a member of Sisters in Crime, the Crime Writers Association, and Mystery Writers of America. She currently lives in a hamlet in the Bavarian foothills

Book preview

Chapter One: Murder

Eleven minutes before the murder, Winifred was finishing up a sketch. The radio was playing something by Beethoven and the house smelled of pork roast. She checked the clock: 7:32. Out with the blackberry pie. She closed her sketchbook and put on her apron. Outside, she heard Philip’s car pulling into the carport beside the house. She turned on the side porch light and opened the kitchen door.

Dr. Phillip Forester came in and kissed his wife and went to hang his hat and bag in the coat closet. Winifred glanced at the clock. She pulled the roast out of the oven, surveyed it doubtfully, and rested it on the counter beside the green beans and potatoes.

As they set the table, Winifred and Philip discussed their weekend plans—golf, sailing, and maybe dinner at the club. Winifred carried the roast to the dining room and set it on the table. Philip brought the other dishes and opened a bottle of wine. They turned off the kitchen lights and sat down to eat dinner. Philip poured two glasses and handed one to his wife before he sat down. When Winifred cut the roast, she frowned and looked up at the clock.

Darling, what’s wrong? her husband asked.

And that’s when it happened; a blood-curdling scream.

It filled the air, then it was gone, leaving the classical music on the radio.

Dear God. Winifred dropped her fork. That sounded like a woman.

Philip was already on his feet. He ran through the kitchen toward the back door and Winifred was right behind him. As she passed the kitchen window, she saw a shadowy figure outside.

Philip yanked the door open and flipped on the porch light.

You there, he shouted at the figure. Stop!

Philip bolted down the steps and through the white arbor that separated their yard from the driveway. Stop! Come back here! Stop!

Winifred reached the doorway and looked out. Just beyond their yard, a dark crumpled form was lying motionless in the driveway. Philip was already through the arbor and running down the gravel drive toward the street. Somewhere in the night, a dog was barking.

Stop, stop! Philip shouted. His footsteps crashed against the wet pebbles. He reached the sidewalk. Above the rhododendron bushes, Winifred could see his shadowy form as he looked up and down the street. But Winifred wasn’t thinking about the retreating figure. Her gaze was on the crumpled shadow in front of her. It was a person. A woman was lying in the darkness. Winifred hurried through the arbor and stooped down in the driveway beside the woman. She could see her own steamy breath puffing into the cold night air. But no breath came from the motionless woman. Her face was turned away from the porch light, but there was enough moonlight for Winifred to see a delicate pearl necklace around her neck.

Winifred had been a nurse in London during the war. She had encountered more bomb victims than she cared to remember. A few times, she had even helped people right after the bomb fell, usually a street or the rumbled remains of their house, but Winifred was at her best in a hospital. In a hospital, there was an order and there was a system, a reliable system, and even if you were short of supplies or beds, or even electricity, everyone knew the protocol.

Winifred stooped down and as she moved, the porch light gleamed off the woman’s necklace. From her left hand, which was in the light, Winifred could tell that she was a young woman. Her fingernails were lacquered pink.

Winifred reached out to touch the woman’s wrist, bracing herself for the worst.

Winifred, Philip said. It’s okay. You don’t have to look. Please get my medical bag and telephone the police. I’ll let you know if there’s anything…

Winifred stood up and looked toward the street. He got away?

Philip yanked off his jacket. I tried, but it’s dark, I couldn’t see which way the bastard went. He tossed the jacket on a shrub and stooped down in the mud.

Did you see his face?

Philip checked the woman’s pulse and frowned. He glanced up at his wife. Please dear, I need my bag.

Winifred hurried into the house.

Seconds later she came back with the medical bag. Philip was on both knees, trying to revive the woman but she still wasn’t moving. Winifred wanted to help but she had the sickening feeling that it was already too late. She set the black medical bag beside her husband, opened it, and hurried back to the house.

Winifred hadn’t telephoned the police in years. She went to the living room and picked up the receiver. She tried not to think about the bombs in London, leveling houses and shops, and destroying whole neighborhoods. But all that was over now. London was rebuilt and Winifred was living a new life on another continent. Everything was different. With a shaking voice, Winifred asked the switch operator to connect her with the police.

A few minutes later, she hung the receiver back on the fork.

Nothing moved except the clock, ticking away as though nothing terrible had happened. Winifred closed her eyes and for a moment she thought she could hear the sirens from the blitz. But she knew it wasn’t the memories of the blitz that frightened her, it was the emptiness that followed. A gnawing emptiness that engulfed her insides and left her numb.

Winifred took a deep breath and wiped a tear from her cheek. Her hands were damp with sweat. She lifted the receiver again and dialed a familiar number. After two rings, a woman’s voice answered.

Victoria. It’s Winifred.

Oh Winifred, her friend said. Look, I’m a bit busy at the moment… Winifred? Are you all right?

Yes, I’m right. Winifred said, Well, I’m sort of all right. But…

It’s okay, Victoria said. Now, I want you to sit down and relax. Do you understand?

Winifred closed her eyes and nodded.

Just breathe and relax. And I’ll be right over.

Chapter Two: The Seattle Police

Sergeant Inspector Riggs set down the receiver and grabbed his hat. This would happen just before dessert. And on a Friday, too. His wife kissed him and reminded him that she was going fishing early in the morning. She didn’t ask him where he was going. She never asked him about his police work in front of the children. She also didn’t promise to save him any cake, but he knew she would.

At least the rain had stopped.

Michael Riggs climbed into his old brown ’49 Plymouth and headed toward the address Inspector Fisher had given him. Magnolia Hill was an upscale neighborhood with grand houses and expensive views. The neighborhood was on a green peninsula just northwest of downtown and it only took Riggs fifteen minutes to get there. The street in question was a dead end, with fabulous houses on one side and an equally fabulous view on the other side. Riggs stopped across from the second to the last house.

Inspector Fisher must have been just ahead of him because he was still grabbing a couple of flashlights from the official black and white police car. Riggs parked and got out. To his left; Seattle’s skyline glowed in the darkness. In the daylight, he would have been able to see Mt. Rainier, the Olympics to the right, and all of Puget Sound everywhere in between.

After the last house, the street ended. The undeveloped land sloped steeply—without the trees and bushes, it would have been almost treacherous—down toward Elliott Bay. Rigg peered over the edge. Blackness, but somewhere at least a hundred feet below him, he could hear the faint lapping of the ferry’s wake on the rocky beach. He turned away from the view and looked across the street. The last house was in complete darkness, but the one next to it was pushing its fuse box to the limit.

Some folks really have all the luck, don’t they, sir? Fisher muttered.

You know we’re here on a homicide call? Riggs put on his old brown hat. Somebody’s luck failed.

Fisher ignored the remark. He pointed to the house that was making Grand Coulee Dam work overtime. The lady telephoned us from this house, he said.

As the policemen approached the house, a woman in her mid-thirties opened the door.

Riggs touched the brim of his hat. Good evening, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Inspector Riggs of the Seattle police. This is Inspector Fisher.

The woman glanced at Fisher, but her gaze returned to the Inspector. I’m Mrs. Forester. I’m the one who telephoned you. My husband is with the woman. She’s in the driveway over there. Winifred pointed. Although she was still shy of forty, her distinct English accent and her calm composure reminded Riggs of his grandmother.

The two men went around to the side of the house, where they found two parallel gravel driveways, divided by a narrow strip of grass. The Forester’s driveway stopped at the carport behind their house, while the other driveway branched off at the dark house next door and continued up the hill to a large house. A series of low rhododendron bushes, about four feet tall, separated the Foresters’ driveway from their yard.

Stick to the grass, until we’ve had a chance to look for footprints, Riggs instructed the junior policeman.

Fisher handed his boss a flashlight and grumbled, Man, I wish dolls noticed me like they notice you. Do you think it’s your mustache?

Riggs turned on his flashlight. I think it’s how I treat them.

‘But I’m very respectful, Fisher objected, and I never call a doll a ‘broad’ or a ‘dame’ to her face."

In that case, I suggest growing a mustache and keeping your mouth closed.

A rose arbor arched over a gap in the row of bushes. The side porch light was shining through it onto a figure in their driveway. The man stood up and turned to face them. He was hatless, jacketless, and even in the dim porch light, Riggs could see that his trousers were dirty.

As they approached, Riggs introduced himself and Fisher.

Dr. Philip Forester, the man responded. My wife, Winifred, is the one who telephoned you.

Riggs leaned down to the woman. He checked her neck for a pulse. A Doctor, huh? He couldn’t feel any pulse. Well, Doc, what happened here?

I did what I could, but from all indications, it was already too late, Philip said.

Riggs checked her wrist and held the back of his hand to her mouth. She’s already pretty cool.

She’s been dead fifteen or twenty minutes, Philip said. I kept trying, just in case, but there wasn’t much I could do.

Fifteen or twenty minutes, Fisher said as he checked his watch.

About that. Philip nodded. My wife and I had just sat down to dinner when we heard her scream.

What time was that?

The doctor took a deep breath and rubbed his face. I don’t know. I’d only been home for 5 or 10 minutes. My guess is a quarter to eight, something like that. Everything was so peaceful and then, out of the blue, this woman screamed.

Riggs looked at the woman lying in the mud. She was about twenty-seven years old, give or take a year. Her brown hair was styled as if she’d been going to a party. She was wearing a pearl necklace and matching earrings, her lips and her fingernails were a rosy pink. Her coat was good quality, and her deep blue evening dress was one of those fancy fabrics Riggs could never remember the name of. There was some shiny beadwork along the scooped neckline and her dress had a full skirt. Her small blue hat was lying beside her, its netting disheveled and crushed. Riggs wondered if it may have come from one of the better local boutiques, or maybe even San Francisco. There were smudges of mud on her dark coat, her shoes, and bruise marks on her neck. He gently turned her head and leaned closer to get a better look. The marks were blue, and her perfume smelled like roses.

Do you know her? Riggs asked as he stood.

Philip shook his head. I never saw her before.

The woman was lying partially on the driveway and partially on the grass strip that divided it from the neighbor’s driveway. Riggs did his best to survey the landscape in the darkness. The rose arbor and row of rhododendrons that separated the Foresters’ driveway from their house were low enough to provide a fairly open view. And with the porch light on, the woman was visible. Above the Foresters’ house, the landscape was untended, and the hillside was dark with trees and shrubs.

Is that your Golden Hawk on the street? Riggs asked.

No. Philip shook his head and pointed toward the carport. I generally carpool so we only have one car.

Riggs indicated the dark house beside them; the last house on the dead-end street. And who lives next door?

Mrs. Kent, Philip said, and pointing up the driveway he added, and her son, Woodrow Kent, lives in that big house on top. But neither of them have a Studebaker, Golden Hawk or otherwise.

On the hill above, Woodrow Kent’s house was a modern architectural gem. The second floor had a wall of windows that illuminated a grand sundeck that ran the whole width of the house.

A second police car pulled up. Fisher went down and directed them to park on the road facing the driveway so that the headlights illuminated the scene. The car re-parked, the engine stopped, and four men got out.

Watch for footprints, Fisher reminded them. The two men in uniform began roping off the area and the police photographer pulled out his camera. The fourth man nodded at Fisher but came straight to Riggs.

He was an older man with a confident stride. He glanced at the civilian with curiosity, and Riggs introduced them. Dr. Hara, this is Dr. Forester. He and his wife live here, and they witnessed the attack. This is Dr. Hara.

The police doctor shook Philip’s hand. Are you the same Dr. Forester who opened that new clinic downtown?

I’m one of the founding doctors, Forester said.

Well, I’m glad you were here, Dr. Hara said. Although, naturally, I’m sorry that you’ve had a crime like this practically on your doorstep. Perhaps when I’m finished, we could compare notes. It’s not often that I get to confirm the details of my work with an actual witness, let alone another doctor."

Philip agreed.

In the meantime, Riggs said, I’ll need to ask you and your wife some questions.

Of course. Philip led the way to the kitchen door. This way. And don’t be surprised if Winifred insists on giving you some tea. She’ll maintain her composure no matter what, but it may take her three or even four cups.

As Riggs stepped into the house, he was overwhelmed by the lingering aroma of pork roast and pie. Philip led him through the kitchen, and they came into the dining and living room. A dinner, barely touched, was abandoned on the table. Mrs. Forester was sitting upright on the sofa. Her jaw was clenched, and she was doodling on a small notepad. As predicted, a steaming teapot stood on the coffee table.

Winifred, the inspector would like to ask us some questions.

Just a few questions, Riggs explained as he took off his hat. Perfectly routine.

I understand, Winifred said as she set her notebook aside. The color was gone from her cheeks, but she nodded. Protocol and all of that. I was a nurse in London during the war, Inspector, so I know all about regulations. We always had to fill out forms, even when we all knew that no one was ever going to read them because we were all too busy. She stopped short and added. I don’t mean that that’s the case here, of course, she apologized. I only mean that duty is duty and protocols must be followed. She smiled and gestured toward the sofa. The inspector sat.

Would you like a cup of tea, Inspector? Winifred asked as she began filling a cup. I always think tea helps one to relax and put things back in their proper perspective. I suppose, I’m in a bit of shock myself, actually. So, I added a little sugar to mine. I usually don’t take sugar. But we also don’t usually have a woman strangled at our gate. Would you like milk or sugar?

Chapter Three: The Witnesses

Riggs thought the tea tasted like weak rainwater but it was leagues better than the lousy excuse for coffee they had at police headquarters.

I suppose she is dead? Winifred Forester looked up at her husband.

Philip sat down beside her and held her hand. I’m afraid so. There was nothing we could have done.

Winifred brought her teacup close to her face and inhaled the steam in long slow breaths.

Did you know her, Mrs. Forester? Riggs asked.

Winifred shook her head. I never saw her before.

The inspector sipped his rainwater. Could you please tell me exactly what happened?

Winifred set her cup on the saucer and took another deep breath. Philip had only been home for a few minutes. We set the table and talked about our plans for the weekend. Then we sat down, and we were just starting to have our dinner when all of the sudden, we heard this awful, horrible scream. She shuddered. Philip ran to the kitchen door, and I followed him.

Do you know what time it was?

It was 7:46.

Inspector Riggs’ brow furrowed slightly. Exactly?

Winifred nodded.

Excuse me, Mrs. Forester. But do you mind telling me how you’re so sure?

I’m terrible at roasts, Winifred said. I suppose it’s because we never had any during the war. Usually they’re too dry, but the one from last week was still completely red. I put this one in the oven at 3 o’clock and I turned the temperature a little lower than usual. I checked it three times in the last hour, and I thought it was perfect, but when I sat down at the table and had a good look at it, it looked overdone. Which is disappointing, really. Anyway, I had just looked at the clock because I wanted to double-check exactly how long it was in the oven. It was 7:46 exactly, when I looked at the clock, and that was when she– Winifred stopped.

That’s when you heard the scream?

Exactly, Winifred said quietly. She looked down at her lap and her jaw tightened.

Philip Forester put his arm around his wife’s shoulder.

Riggs spoke gently. And what happened next?

Winifred hesitated and Philip continued, We both ran to the door. I could see two figures in the driveway. One person was overpowering another. I flipped on the porch light and shouted at him to stop. He must have let go of the woman because she fell to the ground. He took off toward the street and I tried to follow him.

Did you see his face?

No, I think he looked at me, but his hat had a wide brim and it cast a shadow on most of his face.

Did you see any features? Hair color? Beard? Anything?

He was clean-shaven, Philip said. But he may have had a mustache, I couldn’t see above his mouth, but his jawline was clean.

Riggs turned to Winifred. How about you, Mrs. Forester?

Winifred shook her head. It was too dark.

And which way did he go?

Toward the street, Philip said. "He had a