Mourning Express Read online

  Whatever Mr. Gangster had in his hand he quickly shoved back in his pocket.

  Bowman’s scrunched up face turned another shade of red. “I’m on my way.” He pushed past Mr. Gangster toward the back yard. I smiled sweetly and wiggled my fingers in a goodbye wave to the other man.

  My heart raced. Even on my most nervous audition, I’d never felt the urge to vomit as I did now. Had I really overheard a shakedown? And the way Mr. Gangster had said the words so-called accident troubled me. It was as if he’d meant that he knew it wasn’t an accident. Was it possible Bowman had staged an accident to hurt Harold for financial gain to pay off the mob?

  Gabe leaned his head into the bathroom. “What are you doing in here? Bowman is out back taking money. We need to get in line.”

  I walked with shaky legs through the back door and stood behind a line of people holding Harold’s possessions in their hands. When I stood in front of Bowman, I found it hard to keep up the sweet southern girl act, but I pressed on.

  “Just the quilt,” I said.

  He glanced at it and his gaze lingered a little longer than made me comfortable. “Two hundred,” he said.

  My mouth dropped open and he narrowed his eyes. I recovered and reached for the wad of twenties in my pocket. “I only have one hundred.”

  “Then you don’t have a quilt, do you?” He reached for it, but I pulled it closer to my chest.

  “I need this quilt,” I said, accidently dropping my accent.

  Gabe moved in beside me. “Two hundred is a little steep for a used blanket. Even a hundred is more than what it’s worth.”

  Bowman’s top lip curled. “Now it’s three hundred.”

  I handed the quilt to Bowman and squared my shoulders. If not for me, it’s possible he’d been roughed up by the mob guy. But to admit that meant admitting to spying. “Let’s go, sweet’ems.”

  I linked my hand with Gabe’s and pulled him toward the side of the house. We looked back to see Bowman toss the quilt to the ground behind him.

  “What a jerk,” Gabe said.

  “We did our best, I guess.” Real tears filled my eyes and I hated that my voice sounded tight. Another injustice that wouldn’t be righted.

  “Give me the money,” he said.

  “What’s the point?” I handed Gabe the entire one hundred dollars. “He’s not going to sell it to us.”

  He pulled out two twenties and handed them back to me. “The price just went down to sixty. Now, go start the car and put it in Drive.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Go, now.”

  He hovered by the side of the house until I arrived at the car. I got in and rolled down the windows. Less than a minute later, I heard Gabe’s voice screeching from the front yard. “Go, go, go, go…”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror to see him running full speed toward the car. Putting the car in Drive, I let off the brake and hovered over the gas when he jumped in the passenger seat. “Go, go, go!” he yelled again.

  Bowman’s voice rang out behind us. “Get back here you thief!”

  I smashed my foot on the gas and the car jerked forward. “What did you do?”

  “Just drive. I’ll tell you once we get out of here.” He slid down in his seat while I weaved through the housing developments street toward the entrance.

  I checked my mirrors again and again expecting Bowman to come up behind us in his car. “We’re on the main road. Did you steal that quilt?”

  Gabe winked and hugged the quilt with both arms. “I ran up behind him and exchanged the money for the quilt and kept running. I barely even slowed down.”

  His laughter rang out into the car and I couldn’t help but join in.

  “You’re a thief and I’m your accomplice,” I said.

  “No way,” he said and tossed the quilt into the back seat. “I paid for that blanket fair and square.”

  “I hope he didn’t write down my license plate number.” I thought back to the slick-haired gangster. “Although, I’m not sure someone mixed in with the mob would call the police over something as small as a stolen quilt.”

  Gabe snorted. “There’s no mob in Asheville.”

  With a flick of my wrist, I pushed aside his statement. “My friend Sheila researched a role for a Gambino movie and she said there’s mob influence in every major city in the U.S.”

  I decelerated and pulled over to the side of the road, the bits and pieces of Bowman’s conversation with the gangster swirling in my head.

  “Are you okay?” Gabe asked.

  I focused on the traffic passing by as I came to a conclusion. “I think Bowman might have murdered his uncle to pay off the mob.”

  “That’s quite an accusation to make.”

  I tugged at my bottom lip. So-called accident. The gangster would only say that if he thought Bowman had staged the incident. Bowman certainly hadn’t corrected him. “I really think he could have.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I know what a television character would do. But I’m not acting in some made for television movie where there are fake bullets and fake blood and little possibility of me actually getting hurt. I’ll take my information to the police and let them handle it.”

  “Good,” he said on a sigh. “You had me worried for a minute there.”

  “Don’t worry, bestie. I know my limitations.”

  ∞∞∞

  I dropped Gabe and the quilt off at the apartment on my way to the police station located downtown. I’d called ahead and had been routed to a Detective Jones who promised to meet me in the lobby.

  Gabe wouldn’t let me leave with the wig, so I had to give up my Mary Margaret persona and go in as just Rosie.

  Lucky to find parking adjacent to the exposed brick building, I guided my car into a space off of Marjorie Street. My sandals clicked against the white tile and the familiar scent of bleach and lemon scented Lysol wipes filled the open waiting room with a few rows of blue plastic chairs. I gave my name to the clerk at the window and he told me to sit and wait. So that’s what I did. An hour and two cups of stale coffee later, a gruff-looking man opened one of the double doors and waved to me. He wore khakis, a blue polo shirt, and a gold badge clipped to his belt.

  “Ms. Collins, I do apologize for your wait.” His rich, southern drawl boomed into the waiting room as I approached him. “I’m Detective Jones.”

  He ushered me down the hall into an interview room much like the one I’d been in the day I’d reported my brother for theft and fraud.

  I sat down across from the detective in a chair as uncomfortable as the ones in the lobby and waited for him to start the interview.

  He set down a file folder in front of me. “We must’ve gotten our wires crossed on the phone earlier. I swore you said you had evidence about a murder of one Harold Baumgartner, but after I made some phone calls, I realized Mr. Baumgartner died from an accident.”

  “That’s what his nephew wants you to think,” I said, leaning forward and nodding my head to help make my point.

  Detective Jones flipped the file folder open. “I have the coroner’s report right here and it says the cause of death was from a fall in the shower. Do you have some sort of evidence that would contradict this?”

  “Is that the cause of death or manner of death?” I asked, thinking back to Mateo’s conversation about slip-and-falls. All my research for the crime dramas came flooding back. I reached across the table for the file, but he pulled it out of my grasp. “Because there’s a difference, right? Cause of death being the blunt force trauma to the head and manner of death being the supposed fall?”

  My direct questions appeared to make him uncomfortable. He wiped his hand across the front of his shirt a couple of times. “I’ll make my question a little clearer. Do you have evidence that Harold Baumgartner didn’t slip and fall down in the shower?”

  “Well…” I paused. I had bits and pieces of a conversation. Not to mention a gigantic hunch. “You see, t
his morning I went to the estate sale at Harold’s house and I overheard Bowman Baumgartner and what looked like a mobster discussing Harold’s death. Like Bowman had planned his uncle’s murder for the money to pay off the mob.”

  Detective Jones’s mouth popped open and formed a misshaped O. I took it as a sign to continue with my story. “The mob guy, I’ve nicknamed him Mr. Gangster, said something about Harold’s ‘so-called accident’ happening just in time to pay off his debts.” I used hand quotes to emphasize so-called accident.

  He shut the file and his belly shook with a laugh. With his index finger, he pointed to a camera in the corner. “Very funny, Jenkins. You guys can bust in now with my birthday cake.”

  When he folded his head down on the table and continued to laugh, I tapped the top of his head. “Who is Jenkins?”

  “Come on! The ruse is over. Every year the guys pull some prank on my birthday and this year is the first time I almost fell for it.” He thumped his fist against the table twice. “A D-list actress comes in claiming to have information about the mob. It’s right out of one of those Lifetime movies.”

  D-list actress, huh? I pushed aside the insult and concentrated on the bigger problem. Dang it all. The man thought I was a prank. I tucked my lips in and realized I’d hit a new low. I crossed my arms and waited for the laughing to stop.

  He used his knuckles to wipe under his eyes and met my gaze. Second by second he sobered up after realizing nobody was coming through the door with a cake. His gaze focused hard on the camera as if he willed someone to come through the door.

  After about a minute, his confused expression took a turn. He rubbed the top of his head. “You’re serious about this?”

  “I seem to be the only one,” I answered. “A big Lifetime movies fan are you?”

  “My wife makes me watch it.” His eyebrows scrunched together in the middle of his reddening forehead. “Well, now I’m back to my original theory that you’re out to create a little attention for yourself.”

  The nerve. “I most certainly am not. I’m a concerned citizen.”

  “You know, I never liked your movies. The ones where you make the cops out to be hillbilly idiots who couldn’t solve a case without some ‘concerned citizen’ to put the puzzle together for them.”

  “That doesn’t seem like any of my movies, but I can definitely see where Hollywood finds their stereotypes,” I snapped back.

  Detective Jones stood and tucked the file under his sweaty armpit. “There is no mob operating out of Asheville. Mr. Baumgartner died from falling in the shower. That’s the manner and the cause of death. An accident. Unlike the movies, it takes real evidence to prove a murder has taken place and you’ve yet to show me any.” He opened the door to the interview room. “Goodbye, Ms. Collins.”

  “Wait.” I stood but didn’t move toward the door. “I also spoke with a private investigator at the funeral. Lou Kadlec and he had some concerns about Harold too.”

  “Lou Kadlec is one of Asheville’s worst private detectives. Just check out his reviews on Yelp. If this is all you have, then…” He pointed to the door.

  Frustration welled up inside me but I couldn’t gather my thoughts quick enough to come up with a rebuttal that would turn our interview around.

  Although Detective Jones had made it clear he wasn’t a bumbling detective as some were portrayed in the movies, I couldn’t help but feel the preconceived notions he had toward me clouded his judgment.

  The detective saw me to the lobby without saying anything further and the door shut heavy behind me after I passed through.

  My phone vibrated inside my purse and I read a text from Tom. How about that coffee? So much for him waiting for me to make the first move. However, a coffee could ease some of my disappointment. Not to mention, Tom seemed to know both Harold and Bowman pretty well. Maybe I could come at this from a different angle. The police might not believe a diva actress, but they would be hard-pressed to call Pastor Tom a liar. First, I’d have to convince him that my theory about Harold made sense. I marched out of the police station lobby, my determination building.

  9

  Bad reviews or not, I bet private investigator Lou would also take me more seriously than Detective Jones. I fished his card out of my purse and got his voicemail on the second ring. I left a brief message about my Bowman and Harold theory and asked if he knew anyone by the name of Napoli. It wouldn’t hurt to gather as many people as possible to back me up.

  I met Tom at Starbucks near The Fresh Market. He waited for me at a back table with a paper cup in front of the seat opposite him. Today, he wore a white collared shirt with a blue and red pinstriped tie and dark slacks. A matching suit jacket was draped over his chair. Before I could sit down, he stood and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. It didn’t give me the thrill I hoped it would, and I could tell that Tom and I wouldn’t have anything more than a friendship.

  “I didn’t realize we were dressing up for coffee,” I said, trying to ease my nerves about using our coffee date as a way to get more information on the Baumgartners.

  “Oh,” he said on a chuckle. He ran a hand down the front of his tie. “I just came from a church leaders meeting. Gotta dress up for the elders.”

  “Well, you look nice.” I meant it. He’d make some sweet southern girl with the real name of Mary Margaret a good husband someday.

  “You always look great. As if you’ve just stepped off a movie set.”

  I still wore the outfit of my disguise from earlier. Hardly worthy of the compliment, but I thanked him just the same.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you.” He picked up the coffee cup and shoved it into my hands. “It’s a Flat White. That’s your drink of choice, right?”

  “It is.” I slipped into the chair. “How did you know that?”

  His cheeks turned a rosy shade of pale-pink. “I have a weird confession. I followed your Instagram before you shut it down. In fact, I noticed that you shut down all your social media. Made it kind of hard to cyber-stalk you.”

  Once upon a time I’d spent hours on social media sites. I honestly didn’t miss it. “Having a hashtag in your honor isn’t always a good thing. After the YouTube video, the troll attacks came pretty quickly and for my mental health I had to shut it all down.”

  He made sucking noise with his teeth. “People can be nasty. I must’ve watched that video a hundred times. I still can’t believe you set that guy on fire.”

  Tom’s bluntness earned him a smile. “I didn’t technically set the man on fire. The candle did.”

  He beamed a smile back at me. “Well…” he said but didn’t continue.

  In my head I worked out a few ways to bring up Harold and Bowman in a roundabout manner, but instead took inspiration from Tom’s bluntness. “How well did you know Harold?”

  I could tell the turn in conversation took him by surprise. The smile fell and the crinkles around his eyes intensified. “As well as anyone could, I guess. I’ve been the pastor at Grace Baptist the past two years and he’s shown up every Sunday. He sits on the last row. Doesn’t contribute to the offering plate. And then on Monday he emails me notes on my sermons. Mostly how I don’t spend enough time in the Old Testament.”

  I cringed. “Yikes.” Harold’s personality reminded me of a phrase I’d once heard to describe someone abrasive—like sandpaper on the skin.

  Tom put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands. “Wish I could say I’m going to miss him.”

  I twisted my coffee cup in circle. “What do you know about his nephew Bowman?”

  He shifted in his seat and took a long drag from his coffee. When he set the cup down, he shrugged. “Um, less than I do about Harold. He doesn’t attend my church. I presided over his mother’s funeral last year. Why all the questions about the Baumgartners?”

  “In any of those emails did Harold ever mention anything about fearing for his life?”

  “I really can’t discuss private conversat
ions in detail between me and my parishioners.” He sat back in his chair, disappointment evidenced on his face. “I have to say, I saw this coffee date going a little differently.”

  “What if I told you that I think Harold was murdered. That I may have come across some information that could prove Bowman did it.”

  “I’d say you were crazy.” The words came out flat and monotone.

  That piece of bluntness along with this tone of voice raised my hackles but at the moment I didn’t have anyone else to answer my questions. I changed tactics a bit. “Does the name Napoli mean anything to you?”

  “You mean like Napoli’s Bar on Tunnel Road? That’s not a place you want to find yourself on a Friday or Saturday night.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve heard it’s an old school bar. Lots of fights and possibly some backroom gambling.”

  Gambling debts. That could be why Bowman owed money. I let that information sit for a few seconds while I sipped my coffee.

  “You’re not thinking of going there, are you? I don’t think that would help with your reputation.”

  “And what reputation would that be?”

  “The diva who’ll do anything for attention. Even claim that someone who died accidentally was murdered.”

  I gasped. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  Tom leaned in close. “I don’t think Ruthie and her clients would appreciate you meddling with the lives of the deceased. It’s a tad morbid.”

  So, he did know about Ruthie and her business. While he’d whispered, I couldn’t keep the screech out of mine. “Meddling? This isn’t some episode of ‘Scooby Doo.’ I don’t understand why no one will take me seriously.”

  “Could be the hashtag. Diva Rosalind at it again.”

  I stood and slung my purse strap over my shoulder. I mentally took back my comment about him making a good husband someday. First he needed to learn to be a tad less judge-y. “Thanks for the coffee, Pastor Tom.”