The Tycoon Murderer Read online

  A large retro glass chandelier hung in the entryway, which wouldn’t have looked out of place when David Remington had his infamous house party.

  As Josie looked out from where she sat on the leather Chesterfield sofa, she was happy to see the progress she’d already made, though the Holland covers reminded her of how much work was yet to be done. As she looked out at the vast rooms in need of more furniture, she made a note to return to the attic to salvage whatever else she could find.

  She hadn’t been able to open all of the trunks and wondered just what might be in them. If the other trunks were any indication, many of them would be filled with yellowing paper covered in scientific formulas. Well, quasi-scientific formulas. On the one hand, Wells had made a sketch of an airplane which pre-dated the Wright Brothers. However, he also had pages devoted to more fanciful theories, like how to breed fish to breathe on land, mirrors which could reflect sound, and even a time travel machine.

  In fact, Wells had been so fascinated by time travel that he’d filled several notebooks with his theories, though the ink had faded so much it was difficult to tell what he’d written. One of the few things Josie could make out was he felt there was a connection between volcanic activity and the ability to move through time and space.

  She wondered if Henry Wells had told anyone about his theories. In her day, he’d probably have a blog with hundreds of thousands of followers, if not millions. She’d Googled him, only to learn that he’d died of heart failure in 1921, leaving no wife or children, only distant relatives back east. There was no mention of his theories or inventions, other than a local tribute in McConnell where several townspeople said he’d been a very good watch repairman.

  It was amazing just what a person could learn through a simple Google search.

  She was roused from her thoughts by the sound of a car in the driveway. She looked out the window to see her friend Janice had arrived. Moments later, Josie was pouring coffee for both of them as they dug into the pastries her friend had brought.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” said Josie. “These are delicious.”

  “I still owe you for babysitting last week, allowing Jeff and me to have date night. Just getting out of the house without the kids was great.”

  “One of us should be able to go on a date from time to time.” Josie hadn’t been on a date since she and her husband had separated.

  “You really should let us set you up with someone.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not quite ready,” said Josie as she caught a bit of apple filling which was trying to escape a turnover.

  “It’s been three months since you moved to town,” said Janice gently. “You need to get out there.”

  “Getting out there is highly overrated. Eat a chocolate croissant.”

  “You just want me to stop talking.”

  “Yes!” said Josie with a grin. “Now come to the attic with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

  The attic ran along the entire top floor of the house, along with the former servants’ quarters. The shutters had been closed at one time to protect the contents from sun damage, but Josie had opened them all as she’d searched the attic for usable furniture.

  There were several trunks in the room, as well as a large full-length mirror in a beautiful walnut stand. Dozens of portraits leaned against the walls, along with boxes which were stacked on top of each other.

  Josie pulled back a cover to reveal an old Victrola on a table, covered in dust. She grabbed a rag and cleaned it off. “Isn’t this a beauty? There’s even a record.” She carefully pulled a record from its case. “It’s the Argentine tango. I can’t imagine anything more romantic than dancing the tango in one of those beaded gowns of the 1920s.”

  “You mean during Prohibition? There’s nothing romantic about not being able to drink alcohol.”

  “Think flappers, bootleggers and jazz. It was post-World War I and pre-Great Depression. The clothes were amazing, although it was a terrible time to be non-white and poor.”

  “Society has always been hard on people who are non-white and poor.”

  “Which is why I know how fortunate I am and support social justice causes now.”

  “As do I.”

  “Good. But can we get back to my decadent daydream?”

  “Of course,” said Janice with a laugh.

  “Sometimes I wish I could go back in time,” said Josie, as she pushed the turntable on the Victrola.

  “Hmmm. I think the past is highly overrated,” said Janice, as she examined the old mirror. “No internet, no TV, no jetted tub with ample hot water.”

  “But don’t you wish you could unplug for a while?” asked Josie as she examined the Victrola and was surprised to see the needle was still intact. “You know, just live in the moment? Enjoy the great outdoors? In some ways, the divorce was a wake-up call. I was tired of living in LA and spending my life in traffic when I wasn’t trying to get studio bosses to buy another script. I’m really looking forward to having a slower pace and not having anything else to think about.”

  “You’re really giving up your job as a screenwriter?”

  “I am for now. Writing movies about crime can really be a drag at times. For now, I don’t want to think about murder and mayhem. I just want to take care of my guests – assuming I get any, of course.”

  “You will. And you’ll be great at it. I just know it. Unfortunately, I have to go pick up Brooklyn from soccer so I can drop her off at Tae Kwan Do. Being a kid is exhausting these days. Thanks again for babysitting.”

  “Thanks again for the baked goods.”

  As Josie escorted Janice outside, they passed the rocking chair on the porch. “That was quite some windstorm last night, wasn’t it?”

  “What windstorm?” asked Janice.

  “The windstorm. It raged all night. It even woke me up a few times.”

  Janice shrugged. “I guess I must be a really heavy sleeper because I don’t remember it. See you soon.”

  As Janice drove away and Josie turned back to the house, her attention was caught by a flash of movement in an attic window. She stared to see if it would happen again, but it didn’t. Then she felt a touch on her shoulder and jumped.

  “Sorry,” said Manuel, her foreman. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay. I just thought I saw something.” She pointed upward but even as she did it, she knew how foolish she sounded. No one was in the house.

  Manuel handed her an invoice. “I just wanted to remind you that we’ll be in Portland for the next couple weeks. I’m sorry to interrupt the work, but the theater restoration was already scheduled when I took this on.”

  “Of course. It’ll give me time to get the rest of the plans done. Good luck on the project and I’ll see you in a couple weeks.”

  Josie glanced up at the window one more time, but there was nothing there. She went into the house determined to stop letting her imagination run amok.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was completely dark outside as Josie continued to catalogue the contents of one of the trunks in the attic by the bluish glow of four battery-operated hurricane lanterns. She had been at it for hours and her back ached, but she loved discovering the treasures of her house. Whenever she managed to pry open a lock, she always paused before revealing the contents, hoping she’d find something other than old notebooks, or, in the case of one trunk, the creepy results of Wells’s experiments with taxidermy.

  Josie closed one trunk, which contained parts of a china set, then pried open the next. This one was a very old cedar chest with a top layer of protective muslin. She carefully removed the muslin and a layer of tissue, revealing a beautiful silver and blue beaded gown. Josie’s breath caught as she carefully removed the dress to examine it. It had spaghetti straps, flapper fringe and intricate beading, which made the sexy dress shimmer in the low light.

  She held it up to her, then looked in the full-length mirror only to see a flash of movement behind her. She qui
ckly turned, but nothing was there. Figuring it was a trick of the low light, Josie turned back to gaze at the gorgeous dress.

  The length was perfect, hitting just above the ankles. Then she wondered if there were shoes. A thorough search of the trunk revealed a pair of two-inch heels in dark navy silk, with sequined tassels to match the dress.

  Now she had to try everything on.

  She took off her jeans and t-shirt, then pulled the slinky dress over her head, letting the weight of the beads pull it down her body. It was a bit tight, but the effect was spectacular. She looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe the reflection.

  She was five foot six, slim and a B-cup. It was the perfect build for a dress which was meant to hang straight down, but accentuated her chest as the silk clung to it. Her shoulder-length brown hair was loosely tied back at the nape of her neck, giving the illusion of a wavy bob. She rarely wore anything other than jeans and a t-shirt. Looking at herself now, she had to wonder why she never dressed up.

  She had a feeling the shoes wouldn’t fit, since she’d outgrown her mom’s shoes when she was still in middle school and she knew people had impossibly small feet in the past. As she gingerly put one foot in, she was surprised to learn it was snug, but not unbearably so. She put the other one on, then looked back in the mirror. There was no doubt about it. The clothes from the 1920s were terrific. She twirled once, then twice, loving how the heaviness of the dress swirled around her legs, then back the other way again.

  Then she looked at the Victrola and the tango record.

  Half an hour later – after wrapping the dusty Victrola in muslin and being very, very careful with her dress – Josie had moved the heavy thing downstairs into the largely empty ballroom. The Victrola was set up, the hurricane lamps had been placed strategically around the room and the Argentine tango record was in her hands.

  Josie blew on the record to get rid of the remaining dust, then carefully laid it on the turntable. She tried to crank the Victrola, but disuse made it difficult. She kept trying until she finally made one full rotation. The next revolution was a bit easier and, finally, she was able to wind it enough to get the heavy turntable spinning. She carefully placed the needle on the record and was amazed when the tinny and slightly warped sounds of a tango played.

  Josie had taken dance lessons as a kid, then convinced her husband to take a few ballroom classes in preparation for their wedding. He’d complained the entire time, which was yet another reason why they probably hadn’t been destined to go the distance. She didn’t understand people who didn’t like dancing.

  She could dance the tango, but still felt a bit silly as she took her first few steps alone. However, she quickly got over that as she felt the slight flare of the beaded dress wrap around her legs as she turned. There was an advantage to living on your own in the middle of nowhere and that was being able to tango by yourself and not have to worry about anyone walking in and thinking you were weird.

  It was fun – the most fun she’d had in a while – and she realized she should do things like this more often.

  Then her phone rang. A glance at the screen showed it was her ex-husband Gary. She almost didn’t answer, but did it, anyway.

  “Hey, Gary.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “I’m surprised you picked up.”

  “So am I.”

  They hadn’t spoken for a while and the sound of his voice still managed to stir something painful inside her. She hated that she was still susceptible to him.

  “Yeah, well I thought you’d screen,” he said.

  “Obviously, I didn’t.”

  “Maybe it would have been easier if you had.”

  Josie inhaled slowly to calm her sudden nerves. Whatever he had to say wasn’t going to be good. She tried to remind herself that he had already hurt her about as badly as possible. She’d truly been in love with him, despite their problems. They had gone through two miscarriages together and when you share that type of loss with someone there’s a bond. It had been heartbreaking to learn he’d not just been cheating on her, but cheating on her with one of her closest friends.

  “Should I call back and this time you won’t pick up?” asked her rather spineless ex.

  “Say what you have to say, Gary.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. Then finally, he began. “Remember how you made me promise I’d tell you if Beth and I got married?”

  Josie had known this day would come, but it was still difficult. “Yes.”

  “Well, her divorce finally came through.”

  “And?”

  “You’re really going to make me say this?”

  “Apparently, I am.”

  “We’re getting married.”

  Josie thought she’d been prepared, but it hurt more than it should. It seemed like the knife, which had plunged into her gut when she’d walked in on them in bed, had just found her again.

  “And we’re having a baby.”

  For a moment, it was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. This time it wasn’t a knife plunging into her but the whole house caving in. Her wonderful new house in the middle of nowhere.

  Gary continued. “I know this is probably tough to hear, but I thought you should know. We both did. I mean, you two were friends for a long time and I hope we can all be friends again some day. We both care about you in our own way.”

  Josie put her hand to her stomach, as she often did when the wave of loss overwhelmed her anew. But this time, instead of falling into the abyss she felt the cool sequins of her beautiful dress.

  “Are you still there?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he added softly, “We never meant to hurt you.”

  The dress seemed to give her strength. “I hate it when people say that instead of apologizing and accepting the uncomfortable fact they hurt someone they once loved. Not meaning to hurt someone just means you’re not a sociopath. Sleeping with my best friend for a year still makes the two of you assholes, even if you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  “There’s no need for name calling.”

  “You and I will just have to agree to disagree on that. Do you have anything else to tell me?”

  He sighed. “Yes. There’s more.”

  “How could there possibly be more?”

  “I can’t send you proceeds from the sale of the house because Beth and I are going to live in it.”

  “Aren’t you already living in it?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then buy me out or pay me rent.”

  “Money’s tight right now, especially with the baby coming. I promise I’ll get you the money eventually. And, besides, you’re making money on the B&B, aren’t you?”

  Josie looked at the house which needed so much work. She wouldn’t make a profit for a long time to come.

  “Josie, I know all of this is hard on you. And I hate causing you more pain when you’re already so fragile, but...”

  The rest of what he was about to say was lost as Josie hung up on him. She took a deep breath, hoping the tears wouldn’t fall. She had already cried enough for this guy. She looked around at the beautiful house which still needed so much work, felt the gorgeous dress which was perfect on its own, then went to the kitchen to retrieve another bottle of wine.

  She poured a rather full glass, then turned on her tablet and did what she always did when she was sad. She read articles about Remington Mansion.

  She pulled up an article from just ten years earlier from a Portland newspaper. It was a good sign for the future success of her inn that there was still regional interest in the mystery. The headline was, “Old Murders Still a Mystery,” with a color picture of the house looking even worse than it had when she’d bought it. Apparently, the most recent owners had done at least a little work on it. The article didn’t mention anything she didn’t already know. The mystery remained unsolved, though the Wall Street tycoon, David Remington, was still the most likely suspect. No one knew why he’d done it, which o
nly added to the intrigue.

  Josie looked at the man in the black and white photo. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, with his dark hair slicked back in the style of the 1920s. In his tuxedo, he was the type of guy you’d expect to see at a Great Gatsby party. With a slightly different haircut, he could pass for a modern-day movie star in Hollywood. She wasn’t sure they needed a motive for his actions. Hot guys were always trouble.

  There were a few articles dated after his disappearance, offering tidbits about his life. Silent movie star Clara Bow detailed a love affair she’d had with him years earlier. J. Edgar Hoover mentioned him by name as proof of the corruption of public morals. There were even some conspiracy theorists who blamed him for the stock market crash, though it occurred two months after he disappeared. There were occasional sightings of him for decades, including at a Hollywood party in the 1930s and in an air raid shelter during the London Blitz of World War II. But there was never anything definitive, no proof that David Remington survived beyond the time he was believed to have committed the murders.

  She moved on to an article from the local paper six months earlier, featuring a picture of Josie standing in front of the house. It had been big news that someone had finally bought it and was fixing it up. Josie had done the interview because she could use all the publicity she could get.

  Then she went through the archives filled with black and white pictures. One of her favorites was from a Hearst newspaper, with the typically understated headline “Bootlegger Death a Gangland Hit!” along with a graphic picture of a mobster in a pool of blood, dead on the ground. He was identified as 35-year-old Mikey Corrigan, one of Chicago’s rising underworld stars.