Murder in the Master: A Chesapeake Bay Mystery

Chapter One

Real Estate Rule #1: A dead body creates buzz. A dead body in a house that’s for sale is never the buzz you want.

It wasn’t the first time Helen Morrisey found someone in bed while showing a house to a potential buyer. But after selling real estate for twenty-three years, this was the first time she found someone naked in bed during a public open house. Even worse, one glance at the bluish cast around his lips and the vacant, staring eyes, and Helen knew he was never going to sign a sales agreement.

She struggled to choke back the lump in her throat and did a quick about-face to block the two clueless buyers that followed her into the middle of the bedroom. I’m awfully sorry. It looks like the owner didn’t expect us.

The couple behind her peered over her shoulder. Mouths dropped open, eyes wide, they took in the man sprawled across the king-sized bed.

Helen grabbed their elbows and pulled them out of the room, back down the grand staircase, and across the marble foyer to dump them on the front step. I-I’ll call you. She slammed the heavy mahogany door.

Helen dug her cell phone out of her jacket pocket to dial 911. She fumbled a couple times and hit the wrong buttons. The third time was the charm.

Kent County Sheriff’s Office. Is this an emergency?

Yes! This is Helen Morrisey with Safe Harbor Realtors. I’m at the model house for Heron Cove on River Road in Port Anne. I need help right away. I found the owner, Al Capelli. He’s dead. Her voice quivered.

Are you sure? Can you repeat your location?

Helen could hear the clicking of computer keys.

Yes, yes. I just found him. Come quick. Heron Cove model house off River Road.

Emergency Services are on their way. Please hold on until they arrive.

Knees weak, Helen sank down onto the top step of the sweeping oak staircase. Should she do something? What if Al’s still alive? Hugging herself, she listened. This big house, the showcase house, was quiet. Too quiet.

‘Helen,’ she chided herself out loud. ‘Where’s your Nancy Drew courage? Where’s your be prepared mantra?’ She brushed her short dark hair out of her eyes and inhaled. Nobody could be prepared for this. Jumping to her feet, she raced up to the master bedroom door then hesitated and pushed it open. She took a deep breath and walked across the huge room to Al. Her cell in her left hand, she reached out with her right and placed two shaky fingers onto his already gray neck. She searched for a pulse. Nothing. Her pounding heart echoed in her ears. She pulled back her hand and glanced around. A T-shirt was tossed on the floor.

She reached for the shirt. She may not have liked him, but he deserved to be covered. Sirens pierced through the quiet. Fingers inches away from the stray shirt, she froze, turned, and retraced her steps imprinted into the plush carpet and stood at the doorway. This was horrible on so many levels. Susan, for a start. She was not just any agent in her office. She was her lifelong friend. She was in love with him even though he was married. Even bigger, Al was a top dog with influence up and down Maryland’s eastern shore. Friend or enemy, this was big news for so many.

The front door banged open.

Detective McAlister, Sheriff’s department!

Thank God. She clicked off her cell and leaned over the stairs. I’m up here!

McAlister leapt up the staircase, grabbed her elbow, then stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room. He pulled on blue paper shoe covers and latex gloves, signaling to the EMT behind him.

Helen stood just inside the doorway, not wanting to get in their way. She studied the room. Nothing seemed out of place aside from a bottle of wine and two empty glasses on a nightstand.

McAlister pulled out his cell phone and dialed. I need a coroner and a crime tech team here now. Tall and built like an ex-Marine, McAlister moved like he was used to giving orders.

He motioned her to the side, his eyes accusing. Did you touch anything? Anything at all?

Helen swallowed, grateful she hadn’t touched Al’s shirt. No. No, I didn’t. Except his neck. I didn’t want to assume he was dead and find out I could have tried to save him.

The detective’s face was grim and focused. Let’s go over what happened. First, I need to see some kind of ID.

Helen’s hands trembled.

McAlister slowed his words. His tone softened. I realize this is upsetting.

Upsetting? I’m still in the category of hysterical disbelief! She snatched a business card out of her jacket pocket. "I’m Helen Morrisey. A real estate agent. I was running an open house today. I was showing a couple around. We walked in to see this. Helen pointed across the room. This is way beyond dealing with panicky buyers. I’ve known Al Capelli for years. His name’s on dozens of big housing projects in three counties." She stared again at the dead man, then turned big green eyes toward McAlister. Helen hated this cop seeing her out of control. She liked to be the calm one. She took a breath and let it go. It didn’t help much.

Tell me what happened, step by step. What time did you arrive here?

Carefully, Helen recounted the afternoon as he took notes.

Who’s his next of kin?

His father died a couple years ago. Al runs the business with his two younger brothers, Matt and Phil. He’s married. Her name is Audrey, and they have two teenagers. I don’t know her. She’s really into being part of the eastern shore social set.

Any issues there?

Helen glanced toward the master bedroom. She shrugged then turned back. Don’t really know.

McAlister raised heavy eyebrows and stared at Helen for a moment. He finally closed his pad and turned to a young officer nearby. Please take Ms. Morrisey to my car. I’ll be with her in a few minutes.

The officer gestured toward the staircase. Helen reluctantly followed. She climbed into the back seat and rested her head back against the cushion. Every few minutes she checked her phone, wondering if she should call her kids. What would she possibly say? What would they possibly do? If Andy were still alive, what would he do?

Forty long minutes later, Helen spotted McAlister approaching the car. He climbed in the back seat beside her. Ms. Morrisey, I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long.

Helen raised her chin. It’s Mrs.

McAlister nodded. In a low tone, he added, We’re guessing Capelli has been dead two to five hours. We won’t know the cause until our coroner examines him. There are no signs of a struggle, but we’re not convinced it was natural causes or suicide. I probably shouldn’t say this, but my gut tells me something is off. Until the coroner reports back, I’m treating this scene as suspicious.

Helen regarded the man. Worry creased his forehead. The smile lines flanking his eyes weren’t smiling. Something told her this wasn’t his first rodeo. Al had a lot of money. He had his enemies too.

He nodded. Are you okay to drive home? Or do you want one of my squads to take you?

Helen offered a determined smile. They have better things to do. I’ll be fine.

Okay. Just don’t go far. We’ll talk again.

Helen opened her mouth to protest then clamped her teeth together. McAlister might be used to giving orders, but Helen wasn’t good at following them. He hadn’t seen her Irish up.

* * *

Early the next morning, Helen edged her way through town toward her office. She spotted the blue wooden sign at the crest of the bridge announcing Welcome to Port Anne, Maryland–Top of the Chesapeake! in white and gold letters. It was May and Port Anne, halfway between Philadelphia and Baltimore, was feeling the winter doldrums shift to bustling anticipation of the summer season. Chromed trucks towing polished speedboats wove through town and out to the marinas. Beamers, Land Rovers, and Audi convertibles with out-of-state plates were starting to line Water Street. Shop windows called like ship sirens with displays of classic sloop models and blue herons on white pottery. Striped buoys and nautical flags flapped in the sunshine. Almost overnight, down on their luck fishing villages like Port Anne were enjoying a rebirth as waterfront was becoming in shorter supply. But the smells of crab cakes and rockfish reminded the hungry this was still a real water town.

After yesterday’s nightmare discovery, she needed real coffee to start her day, not the swill usually available at the office. She pulled up to Jean’s Coffee Pot. The shop was buzzing. In a little town like Port Anne, news traveled fast. Al’s death was on everyone’s tongue.

Two crabbers, still in their wet waders, chatted in front of her in line. Heard a real estate agent found him, muttered the tall one.

Helen took a step back. Did the press leak her name? If not, it wouldn’t be long.

Back on the sidewalk with her coffee, she gazed up and down the street. One by one, ramshackle clapboard shopfronts were being rehabbed with fresh coats of white paint and variegated trim. Those still neglected looked particularly forlorn. A bait and tackle shop had shared its back room with a barbershop for eighty years. Now they were flanked by stores selling high-end leather goods and hand-knit sweaters.

Helen pulled her navy-blue Mini Cooper into the gravel parking lot behind her office and stopped. She inhaled slowly, dreading the day. Her cell rang.

Helen, I just heard you found Al Capelli, exclaimed Eric, a client who worked the front desk of the sheriff’s department.

Not one of my best days. Definitely Al’s worst. Horrible. She paused, unsure what else to add. What have you heard?

Only that McAlister is on the case. And the coroner thinks Al had a heart attack. He’s not sure until the final test results come in. They think it was induced. McAlister’s squad is out interviewing every Capelli in the county.

What’s your take on McAlister?

He came up from state police in Baltimore two years ago. Wanted a break from the city. Believe me, if Al’s death was murder, McAlister will figure it out. He’s like a dog with a bone. Smart. By the way, he’s single.

Why should that interest me?

Sorry, Helen. Just thought you might want to know. Eric’s police radio blared. Hey, I’ve got to run.

Helen clicked off her phone. She wasn’t sure why he threw out that little tidbit. McAlister’s marital status was definitely in her ‘no need to know’ category. She’d already lost the love of her life. She wasn’t looking for another.

Despite the bright sunshine, Helen shivered. A guy like Capelli—and his big-money lifestyle—were sorely resented by some of the locals he’d walked over. Could resentment be a reason for murder? Loath to go there, Helen straightened her shoulders, grabbed her leather tote, and climbed out of the car.

A big red and white banner swayed in the bay breeze and marked the office open for business. Weathered clapboard was spruced up with soft yellow paint and fresh white trim. Helen pulled open the glossy, solid oak door and a captain’s bell clanged. She liked that.

The phones were ringing off the hook. Their receptionist struggled to calm an anxious buyer concerned about the future of Capelli Builders and their half-constructed house.

As Helen walked by, she gave a sympathetic cup-in-hand wave. If ever there was a time people became totally self-involved, it was when they were buying a house. This news of Capelli sure wouldn’t help.

Calm, rational people became suspicious, sure someone else was getting a better deal. Helen had been known to put buyers and sellers in separate rooms during settlement to avoid fistfights. And until the ink was dry, she didn’t earn a penny. Definitely an all-or-nothing kind of business. Why didn’t she own stock in antacids? On the flip side, she was invited into houses and people’s private aspirations. She loved that.

Only nine in the morning and Detective McAlister was already leaning on the front desk. Has Susan Edwards been in the office yet? He flashed his badge at the receptionist.

Helen gave him a nod and tried to keep on moving. Helen guessed she was probably going to be next in line if Susan wasn’t here. His stance told her he wasn’t likely to give up easily.

McAlister turned and offered his hand. Good morning, Mrs. Morrisey. Helen set her cup on the desk and returned the strong grip.

There was no getting out of this. Ever since Andy died, attractive men made her nervous. But she wanted to know what was happening. She’d called Susan three times the night before and never heard back from her. She was worried.

I guess it’s time you call me Helen, she responded.

McAlister relaxed his official stance and offered a slow smile. It’s Joe.

An argument drifted down the hallway and Helen immediately recognized the voice of Bob Rickel. Damn him.

I need to go. I can hear the dulcet tones of an unsatisfied client. She tipped her head toward the voices. The perfect way to start a new day.

Let me know if you need reinforcements. Joe smiled again. Though, if I’d take a guess, you’ve handled this sort of thing before. Joe’s cell rang and he winced. I’ll have to catch up with you later.

Helen headed down the hall toward her private office.

Tammi, her assistant, grimaced as Helen approached.

Arms crossed, Rickel’s belligerent expression only confirmed what Helen already knew. He wasn’t happy. But then, after working with him for months, though it felt like years, she knew it was his normal state. The only thing that changed was his reason for being unhappy.

With his settlement a month or so away, Helen was counting the days until she could take out her cell and delete Rickel’s name.

Rickel launched into his litany of demands the second he spotted her. Helen, I heard about Capelli. This better not delay construction. I’ve got over nine hundred thousand dollars invested in this house. His cheeks puffed as he shouted.

Helen had predicted the tirade. He always reminded her how much he was spending.

Should she attack him now or later? She reined herself in. Bob, the Capellis are swamped with police inquiries. They’ve just lost a member of their family. I’m sure you can understand.

That may be, but I have to know if they plan to complete Heron Cove. His voice rose into a whine as he leaned in, pushing his round reddened face closer to her. I don’t intend to take a bath on this just because Al Capelli’s gone.

Even with Rickel towering over her, Helen stood her ground. They were practically nose to nose.

Rickel blinked first then turned and stomped out the door. The captain’s bell clanged behind him.

Helen blew a quick kiss at Rickel’s back, then turned to her chuckling assistant. I’m good at predicting real estate problems, but not good at predicting murders. Does he think I’m psychic?

Tammi shook her head. A cross between Mother Teresa and General Petraeus, Tammi was a single mom adept at juggling diva agents, demanding clients, and a four-year-old daughter. Her short, curly black afro always bounced when she talked. Her kooky earrings invariably reflected the season or her frame of mind. Shiny orange and yellow sunbursts poked out between her frizzy curls. Helen gave her a wink on the way into her office.

* * *

Helen spent the rest of the morning pushing papers around, returning phone calls, and struggling to keep her mind on business and off dead bodies. No time for a real lunch, she dug through her desk drawer and pulled out three dried-out Twizzlers.

Tammi poked her head in the door, then sank into the leather chair across from Helen. It’s insane out there. She grinned. Detective McAlister left right after Rickel. He’s trying to track down Susan. Has she called you?

Nope. I’ve called her three times. Then again, unless it’s business, we haven’t talked much since she started seeing Al. She knows I don’t approve.

Did you tell the detective she and Al were…dating?

Helen pulled at a strand of hair behind her right ear. No way. He can figure that out all on his own.

It’s not exactly a secret. Every pretty real estate agent in town knew he’d give them business as long as they gave him lots of special attention. Tammi tugged on an earring.

Helen gave a rueful laugh. And we’re not talking extra advertising. Everyone always got a kick out of identifying his model houses by the latest agent frequenting the master bedroom after hours. For a year now, they’ve been calling Heron Cove ‘The Susan.’ I have to admit, I always admired Al’s efficiency, if not his ethics.

So, what’s your schedule this afternoon?

Helen twisted at her watch. I’ve got a one o’clock with Estelle and David Pettit. Remember Estelle? Tall, athletic? She and David bought their house about four years ago. I can’t believe they want to move. Thought they’d stay here forever.

I remember Estelle. We talked whenever she stopped by to say hello to you.

She turned into a good friend. They’ve referred a lot of nice people to me. Actually, Rickel was one of them. Helen stopped tapping her pen and grinned. They can’t all be winners.

Her assistant groaned. That’s for sure.

That reminds me. David is Capelli Brothers’ chief financial officer. Wonder what he’s thinking after this news. He has to be concerned about the company’s future.

Sounds like you’re in for an interesting visit.

An intercom paging Tammi echoed out in the hallway.

I’d better go. Catch you later.

Helen waggled a goodbye with her last Twizzler.

* * *

Helen rang the Pettits’ doorbell then opened the door. Estelle? It’s Helen. She peered around and headed toward the kitchen. She stopped at the sliding door that overlooked Estelle’s flower garden in the back yard.

Estelle waved her out to the patio. Come on out. I just made iced tea for us.

Oh, that’s lovely. Helen walked across the yard and gave her friend a hug. Is David here?

No. He’s been gone since seven when he got a call from Matt Capelli about Al.

Have you talked to him since? The phones at my office are going crazy. Helen grabbed a chair across from Estelle and poured herself some tea.

He called me about an hour ago. He can’t meet up with you until later. He sounded frantic. Estelle’s lower lip began to tremble. She raked her fingers through her light brown hair. Sorry. I find this whole thing with Al so creepy.

Helen reached across the table. The police aren’t even sure what happened.

You didn’t see my husband’s face when he took Matt’s call this morning. He went white. Helen, he went into the bathroom and heaved into the toilet!

Helen set down her glass. Her friend’s face was pale despite her tan. Do you think he thought someone would want to harm Al? Or held a gripe against the company? That’s frightening.

Estelle topped off their drinks. I don’t know. He acted like he was scared to death. He got dressed and bolted out the door without saying a word.

It’s sad. Three brothers and now it’s just Matt and Phil. But why would that frighten David? I never thought Matt and Phil got along. Matt always traveled around town with their marketing guy, Tim Halton. Phil was always odd man out.

Estelle shrugged.

Helen pulled out a notepad. Why are you selling the house? Does it have to do with the Capellis? You always told me you loved it here.

Her friend started drawing circles on the table with her glass. We do love it here. But David’s mother has a bad heart, and he hates not being able to check on her every day. He talked me into moving back to Baltimore. We’re going to live with her for a few months until we find a house nearby.

Does he have another job?

Already lined up. Money-wise, it’s actually about the same as working for the Capellis, but it sounds like it’s a lot less stressful. He’s looking forward to it.

So, when are you hoping to leave here?

David’s got a moving company scheduled for end of the week.

You’ve got to be kidding. What’s the rush? Helen struggled to hide her shock. Wouldn’t it be easier to move his mother here into this house?

It’s what he wants. After today, I don’t even care.

Chapter Two

Tuesday afternoon, Joe pulled in beside Helen when she parked at Safe Harbor. He unfolded his legs as he climbed out of a black Ford Explorer.

Helen deliberately took her time. She tucked her hair behind her ears and pasted on an overly bright smile. What brings you back, Detective? Any news on Capelli’s possible murder? Her tone was deliberately cheeky as she walked past him.

Joe smirked. News travels fast. Who told you?

Well, no one picks up on the local happenings faster than real estate agents. We usually find out the dirt sooner than later. She emphasized sooner.

The fact he was rather hunky, and she guessed, mid-fifties, was a major plus in her book. But it wasn’t going to keep Helen from trying to steal his thunder. Most men couldn’t keep up with her banter. It was a good way to keep them on their toes and out of her personal space.

Since most agents are women, I’m not surprised to hear gossip fills your day.

She stopped dead in her tracks. His stock dropped. Or did it go up?

Did you really just say that?

Joe held his hands up. Sorry. That was out of line.

Helen studied his face and decided a man who apologized was worth forgiving, at least the first time. Besides, she had egged him on. What is it you forgot to ask me? We gossipy agents are always short on time, even if you’re not. She took off toward the entrance, her heels clicking across the slate walk and up the front steps. She was enjoying their fencing conversation.

He caught up with her and grabbed the door. We’re trying to narrow down the time of Al’s death. He followed her past Tammi into her office and planted his bulk in her leather chair. Supposedly, Susan Edwards never went into the master bedroom when she opened up the open house at noon or before you took over at one-thirty. That’s hard to believe. How can an agent be in an empty house and not know if anyone is upstairs?

Far as I know, dead men don’t make noise. Helen lined up files in neat stacks on her desk, refusing to give him her complete attention. Curiosity was killing her, but she liked making him work for her help.

The coroner thinks he was killed sometime between eight a.m. and noon. But why kill him there? He pulled a small wire-bound notepad out of his jacket.

Let me ask you something. Do you like mystery stories? Because I do. In fact, you could say I’m an addict. As a girl, I lived and breathed Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden. Still do. The list is just a lot longer.

Where are we going with this?

Helen held up her hand. Jane Marple once observed, ‘Murder really isn’t a thing to tamper with lightheartedly.’ I take her advice seriously. Now that I’m in the middle of this murder investigation, I’m vacillating between curious and totally freaked out. This isn’t life as I know it.

He was silent for a moment. And just who is Jane Marple?

Jane Marple, the infamous Agatha Christie amateur detective. I’ve been mentally chatting with her since I found Al.

He gave her an appraising look. That’s an unusual approach.

Helen ignored the dismissive tone in his voice. She knew she couldn’t hold back. She was too opinionated, like Nancy. Sometimes it got her in trouble. I have to say it sure was vindictive to leave Al dead in his own spec. Kind of the ultimate revenge.

Come again?

Look, the last thing a builder wants is a model in his most expensive project getting tainted. When a house is built before it’s sold, it’s built ‘on speculation.’ She gestured quotes in the air. "The builder gambles that he can predict the style and details to attract buyers in that price range. The spec’s success can either help him make a bundle or doom the whole project. Now that