Open House Heist Read online

  Open House

  Heist

  A Lily Sprayberry Realtor

  Cozy mystery

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  COPYRIGHT APRIL, 2019

  CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION:

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Cover Design by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  Paperback Cover Design by Tatiana Vila

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  ASIN: B07NHJSHVV

  For Mary Ann Ridder

  Thank you for encouraging my love for mysteries.

  Message from the Author

  Lily and the gang make me smile. They’re wholesome and pure—well, all of them except for Henrietta and Bonnie, that is—and they’re a joy to be around. (Especially Henrietta and Bonnie!)

  Most of the legal stuff in this book is based on fact, but don’t quote me on that. You might run into a fib or two, but the fibs are only for the sake of the storyline, and because my legal expert was on vacation and didn’t get back to me in time for publication.

  Chapter 1

  Southern folk are smarter than people think.

  A county worker found her body lying in a shallow grave in the woods just off County Road 369, a short two feet from the trail. Dying leaves, sticks and dirt covered her petite remains, discarded as nothing more than trash. Dried blood darkened the leaves matted to the back side of her head, the side that had been bashed in with something hard, though the murder weapon was never found.

  Dirt stained her pale blue shorts and Journey concert t-shirt, but otherwise, her clothes were undamaged. Her left shoe was missing. Weeks later, follow up news articles reported the lone shoe found in the brush just a few feet away from the victim.

  She had not been sexually assaulted, nor had she tried to defend herself, that decided by the drag marks through the heavily wooded area leading to her body and the lack of defensive markings on her hands. She wasn’t killed in those woods, but investigators hadn’t discovered where she took her last breath, or why.

  Circumstantial evidence riddled the case with more questions than answers, and seventeen-year-old Jennifer Rawlings’ killer was never brought to justice.

  A single cross secured in the dirt near the side of the road honored her memory, keeping the questions surrounding her death alive in the hearts of those who loved her, who knew her, and possibly who simply passed by. Her death haunted Bramblett County for thirty-five years, and now someone wanted her killer found. Someone wanted justice.

  And they thought I could serve it right on up to them on a big ol’ silver platter.

  The note lay beside an empty glass case in my client’s living room. A glass case that just three hours before housed an old and expensive coin collection. A collection I’d assured my client would remain safe under my care.

  Though it didn’t mention my name, I knew the note was meant for me.

  You solve new murders and uncover old crimes,

  but can you find a killer who deserves hard time?

  To return what was lost, solve my riddle at all costs.

  Travel back to ’83 and the murder of a girl from Forsyth County.

  I immediately called Dylan Roberts, the county sheriff, who just happened to be my fiancé, too. “I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

  I almost heard his smile over my iPhone. “Wouldn’t be the first time, Lily Bean.” He was one hundred percent right about that, but I definitely wouldn’t acknowledge it out loud.

  “This is a biggie, Dylan. The Hansard’s coin collection is missing.”

  Everyone in Bramblett County knew about the Hansard’s coin collection. A family heirloom of sorts, it had been passed down from generation to generation, growing in size and both monetary and sentimental value as it passed from family to family. The latest family members to own the treasured coins, the Hansard’s, were even featured on one of those antique shows where they’re told the value of their item with all the drama and emotion of my favorite TV crime shows. A little over the top, sure, but drama sold advertising.

  Dylan swapped his flirtatious fiancé voice for his serious sheriff tone. “The what—are you serious?”

  “As serious as the sun is strong.”

  “Are you still in the house?”

  “Yes, but it’s okay. There’s no one here. I just did my final walk through before closing the open house for the day, and that’s when I realized it was gone.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. Get your things, lock the doors and wait in your car. I’ll be there in a few.” He disconnected the call before I had the chance to tell him about the note.

  Knowing touching anything was a big crime scene 101 no-no, I left the note where I’d found it, and did as Dylan said, gathered my things. I conveniently neglected the part where he mentioned leaving the house though.

  He arrived with two deputies, one being Matthew Riley, the deputy sheriff and my best friend, Belle Pyott’s boyfriend. Belle and I worked together and dated from the same pool of men. Never the same men, just from the same profession, at least recently. The working together was intentional, the dating thing more of a matter of convenience. Small towns offered slim pickings in the dating pool, and the most attractive and available men just happened to be in law enforcement. Sure, I’d dated mine in high school and college, but that didn’t work into our little theory, and most of the time we conveniently left that part out. Besides, we’d broken up for several years and only began as a couple again less than a year ago.

  Some things, however, were like your favorite blanket. Dylan was my favorite blanket, warm, comfortable, and felt just like home.

  Matthew laughed when I opened the door for them. “You owe me five bucks, Sheriff.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

  “Dylan said you’d listen to him and be waiting in your car.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Wishful thinking on his part.”

  My fiancé nodded. “The odds weren’t in my favor.” The side of his mouth twitched. “So, tell us what happened.”

  I explained how I’d had several people in for the open house, at least ten, and spent most of my time either walking around with each of them or near the front entry to catch them before they could sneak out. When I mentioned the note, both men stopped me.

  “What note?” Dylan asked.

  “Here, I’ll show you.” I led them into the living room and the note next to the empty glass case.

  They both read it.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s for me,” I said. And okay, my shoulders were pumped out, so I might have felt a little honored and well, proud of it.

  “You don’t know that,” Matthew said.

  I tilted my head like he’d just said the silliest thing ever. “Of course, I do. Who else would it be for? Everyone in town knows I’ve got a nose for solving cr—”

  They both raised an eyebrow my direction and I pressed my lips together knowing I needed to tread carefully so I didn’t hit their egos too hard. “For helping y’all solve crimes, to assist you. Read it. It’s definitely for me.”

  They read the
note but neither of them interpreted it the way I had.

  Dylan examined the case while Matthew surveyed the small space. “Did you touch anything?”

  “I’m holding an open house here. Of course I touched things.”

  He nodded. “How about the coin collection or the case? Did you touch those?”

  “Just the case. The collection was inside.”

  He examined the case again. The lock nor the case had been tampered with. “Do you know if it was locked?”

  I shrugged. “I just assumed it was, but I can’t be sure.” I checked my phone for the time. “The Hansard’s are in Italy. I think it’s around nine o’clock there now, but I’m not sure. I’ll email them and let them know what’s happened, and I can ask them that way.” I ran my hand through my loose, blond curls. “I can’t believe this happened. They’re going to be devasted.”

  “I’m sure they have insurance for it,” Matthew said.

  Technically Matthew was still new in town, having come on board as the deputy sheriff when Dylan asked nearly a year ago. They’d been partners with the Atlanta Police Department before Dylan was brought on as sheriff in Bramblett County through a special nomination that passed for an election. People not from the South would still consider Matthew a country boy, or Southern, but the true Southerners wouldn’t. The Southern charm of Atlanta disappeared when Sherman burned everything, and as of late, the city was an American melting pot. Born and raised in Atlanta by folks from the North didn’t qualify to true Southern folk as Southern, but most people here in Bramblett accepted Matthew into the fold as family, even if he didn’t know the county’s history.

  “It’s not about the money for them, Matthew. It’s a family heirloom. The Hansard’s are the fifth generation to have it, and it’s just grown over the years. It’s not something insurance can replace, and the dollar value to the family is less important than the sentimental value.” I choked on the last part of that sentence. “This is horrible. What am I going to do?”

  Dylan gripped my shoulder. “We’ll find it, Lily.”

  “Yes, when we—” I emphasized we in that sentence. “Do what the note says.”

  “Who’s it about anyway?” Matthew asked.

  “Jennifer Rawlings,” I said. “It has to be. That’s the only murder I know about from thirty-five years ago. Actually, I think it was the only murder in town for years.”

  Dylan nodded. “She’s right. You know the cross on 369? That’s for her.” He took a photo of the note with his cell phone.

  I did the same. “It was a pretty big deal in town. Her killer was never found.”

  “Well, looks like someone wants that changed,” Matthew said.

  Dylan shook his head, but more, I assumed, out of frustration than disagreement. “If someone wanted us to reopen the investigation into a thirty-five-year-old case, there’s a better way of asking.” He smiled at me. “Don’t worry Lily. It’s probably just a stupid prank. We’ll figure it out.”

  Yes, I thought, and if I wanted to get the Hansard’s coin collection back, I’d have to make sure of that.

  * * *

  Belle met me at our client’s home just before the boys left. “Honey, I love you and all, but you’re a crime magnet, you know that?”

  “It kind of seems that way, doesn’t it?” I pushed out my lower lip and pouted, and she wrapped me in a bear hug that made me feel only marginally better. My heart hurt for the Hansard family.

  I’d been selling and listing homes in Bramblett County Georgia for four years, and in recent months, I’d added solving murders, and one seriously intense vandalism crime to my resume. I hadn’t intended to do that, but they’d all but revolved around my business, so I had no choice. Good thing I was engaged to the county sheriff. Dylan Roberts didn’t like me sticking my nose into his business, but he knew he couldn’t stop me, either, so he usually did his best to help guide me along the way.

  “So, when do we start?”

  “Start what?”

  She threw her arms out toward me. “Investigating of course. Come on, you know it’s happening. You know that note was meant for you, right, Miss Crime Solving Queen of Bramblett County?”

  I smiled. “I thought that, too.”

  “Well, then, let’s get on it.”

  I locked up, and we walked outside and to our cars. “Our significant others don’t see the seriousness of solving a cold case, but I believe whoever wrote that note is serious. If the Hansard’s want that coin collection back, then it’s up to me to find Jennifer Rawlings’ killer.”

  She smiled. “So, how do you plan to do that?”

  I wasn’t quite sure. “First things first. I need the case file. That’s what they always do on the crime shows, get the case file and read through it.”

  She opened her car door. “That shouldn’t be hard to get.”

  “If Dylan doesn’t want me involved, do you think he’ll actually give it to me?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, on second thought, good luck with that. You going home?”

  I nodded. “Bo needs a trip to the park, and I’m planning to do a little research.”

  “I bet you are.” She hopped in her car and waved goodbye.

  I drove home thinking about Jennifer Rawlings and her murder, but there wasn’t much to think about because other than what I’d heard over the years, I didn’t know much about the case. I wasn’t even a thought in my momma’s head when the girl died, and most all I knew was conjecture and rumor, or information fictionalized to some degree through years of the story being retold. That, I thought, was better than nothing, and if I could get Dylan to at least let me take a gander at the case files, I’d have a start.

  Only, he didn’t want to believe the note was meant for me, and the last thing he wanted was his nosy fiancée snooping around a thirty-five-year-old murder. Or any murder for that matter.

  I arrived home and changed into yoga pants and a workout top, and being the smart dog he is, Bo knew exactly what that meant. We headed to the dog park, my dog bouncing and prancing the entire way while I giggled at his cuteness.

  While he frolicked with his friends, I distracted myself with thoughts of how I’d go about solving a thirty-five-year-old murder, but I didn’t have a clue where to start. I could list and sell a house or find someone their dream home in a matter of days, but solving murders was something that happened in spite of my intelligence. It wasn’t a skill I’d been trained for or one I’d acquired. My murder solving was pure luck, if one could even call it that.

  I knew I’d have to charm my fiancée into giving me any of the files from the case, or even to allow me to view them, and I hoped that would be easy. A Southern woman had ways of charming her man into doing anything she wanted, and they weren’t just the R-rated kind. I’m sure that worked for some, but for Dylan, a six-pack of his favorite beer and a promise to let him watch whatever sport was currently in season—with me not complaining—usually did the trick. That much I could plan, so I did.

  I commanded my tiny piece of technology to do what my fingers could have just as easily done, but it was more fun to be all tech-savvy. “Hey Siri, call Dylan.”

  He picked up on the second ring. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

  “I’m in the mood for pizza. What do you say I grab a six-pack of that beer you like, and a pizza from Magnolia’s place, and we can watch anything you feel like watching tonight?”

  He coughed. “What do you want?”

  I exaggerated my Southern accent. “Why Dylan Roberts, whatever does that mean?”

  “You think I don’t know when you’re up to something, Lilybean? How long have we been together?”

  “Not even a year,” I said. Of course I wasn’t including the years we’d dated in high school and college or the fact that I’d had a crush on him most of my life.

  “Right. You must be forgetting the times we played on the swing in your parents’ backyard, and you kissed me on the cheek when you were five, and our years of dating befor
e I came back to Bramblett.”

  I grunted. “Fine, I’m hoping pizza, some beer and, God forbid, a night of sports TV will convince you to let me get my hands on the files for Jennifer Rawlings’ murder.”

  He sighed, and loudly, which I assumed was for effect. “I’ll pull the case file and bring it over, but you can’t keep it. It’s against policy.”

  I wasn’t worried. My phone camera would do the trick just fine. “Great. You’re the best fiancé ever. See you in a bit.”

  “Extra sauce this time, please. Magnolia never uses enough sauce.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  An hour later I had the entire case file spread out on my family room floor. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Some of the papers were hand written, though most were typed. There were pages of interviews with various suspects along with a several pages long interview with Clara Covington, the victim’s aunt.

  I twisted to my side and asked Dylan, “Is this what all case files look like?”

  He finished chewing a bite of pizza. “That’s a copy of the complete file, but it’s from thirty something years ago. Technology has advanced, so a lot less is hand written. I made that copy for you to keep because I knew you’d want it.”

  “Thank goodness, because the person that wrote this stuff had horrible penmanship.” I read the investigators name. “Deputy something I can’t make out Pittman.”

  “Henry Pittman. Died just before I took the job.”

  My shoulders slumped. I’d hoped to talk to him about the case. “I remember. The funeral procession was huge.”

  “I bet. He was well liked from what I hear.”

  “What a bummer he’s gone. I could have used his thoughts on this.”

  “You’re really going to try and figure this one out, aren’t you?”

  I placed a paper I’d been reading back onto the floor and sat on the couch next to Dylan. “If I don’t, the Hansards won’t get their coin collection back.”