"None of it matters with Kate testifying about what he told her before she hit him," Banks said. "You are testifying, right, ma'am?"
"Absolutely." Confidence surged through her body with the words. "I can't wait."
Meg cried out, "I can't believe you said that! Katie, you're not being your normal, sweet, non-confrontational self."
"After a guy confesses to two murders, while he's trying to kill you,
after
he's made a hoax telephone call saying your children are being kidnapped…" Kate shook her head. "Let's just say making sure he stays behind bars is now at the top of my to-do list. After all, putting things in their place is my business."
Everyone laughed.
Banks offered a small wave goodbye. "I'll be on my way. It's much nicer seeing people in this kind of setting than in an interrogation room."
As she watched his departing figure, Kate marveled at her own transformation over the past two weeks. For someone who knew nothing about criminal procedures, and had a tendency to over-worry about everything, she'd done a pretty good job at getting Amelia's murder solved. Even if she'd never planned to get involved.
Just then, an older woman fluttered up to the table, someone who brought the word 'confrontation' to mind. The woman wore a brown dress, and reminded Kate for all the world of a bird. That thought helped her recognize the wren-wife, Margaret, of the hawk-husband, Robert.
"Hello," she returned the woman's greeting. "I'm sorry, I don't know your last name."
"Baker," the woman supplied. "Margaret Baker."
Kate made the introductions all around. "Margaret was at my presentation the other night. I hope you enjoyed it."
"It has kept Robert and me arguing nonstop," Margaret replied.
"I'm so sorry—"
But Margaret cut her off. "Think nothing of it. We argue all the time, but this gave us new topics. He's always griped about what I like and want to keep, but got even worse after he retired. Your talk the other night set him off on a constant rant about what I need to get rid of, so I want to hire you."
Surprised at the woman's reversal, Kate clarified, "What exactly do you want me to do? Help you organize your house? Figure out what you can eliminate?"
"Heavens no." She gave a little bird laugh. "I want you to come in with a bunch of organizing shelves and box ideas Robert can start working on. My husband has wanted a workshop for a long time, and I think it's high time he got one. By the time he gets every closet and room organizer made, I figure he'll be too tired to complain about what he thinks I need to do."
"You're a very smart lady."
"After forty-two years of marriage you learn a few things," Margaret replied, smiling. "Well, I'd better get back before Robert has something else to fuss over. Lordy, I wish that man still had his corporate job."
The remark reminded Kate of the shocking line Amelia had said the day of her death, but she knew this woman was completely comfortable with her husband just the way he was. She looked over at Keith and smiled.
And that makes two of us.
Another client, how wonderful. She'd had a message earlier from a single father, an executive set to move his family across country, who wanted Kate's help to organize the endeavor. Things were looking up.
As Margaret Baker left, promising to call and schedule an afternoon consultation for the following week, a four-piece combo in the far corner struck up the Dean Martin classic "Everybody Loves Somebody." Keith motioned toward the small dance floor. "May I have this dance?"
Kate nodded. "This one and every one after, for the rest of our lives."
APPENDIX—Keys to Organizing Like Kate
Top 3 Laundry Tips For Saving Time and Money
Curing Closet Clutter
Meal Organization
*
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*
About the Author
Ritter Ames lives in a small town in the middle of America, but spends each day dreaming up crimes and creating chaos in her characters' lives.
ORGANIZED FOR MURDER
is the first cozy in her Organized Mysteries series, and she has another series, the Bodies of Art Mysteries, starting with
COUNTERFEIT CONSPIRACIES,
also published by Gemma Halliday Publishing. Ritter tries to blog regularly at
ritterames.wordpress.com
and uses her Pinterest boards at
www.pinterest.com/ritterames
to capture great places and ideas she wants to use in both series. Follow her blog and boards to learn more about Ritter and her upcoming books.
BOOKS BY RITTER AMES
Bodies of Art Mysteries:
Marked Masters (coming in 2014!)
Organized Mysteries:
Organized for Murder
SNEAK PEEK
of the first
Bodies of Art Mystery
by Ritter Ames:
COUNTERFEIT CONSPIRACIES
*
CHAPTER ONE
Clouds shrouded the moon. The Dobermans, Zeus and Apollo, snoozed by the rose bushes after devouring the tasty treat I had offered. Waves crashed in the distance and gave the crisp sea air a taste and smell of salt spray. The estate's showplace lawn ended a hundred yards away at a private beach.
Like my previous visit, I wore head-to-toe black. For this jaunt, however, I hadn't donned the ebony-beaded Vera Wang halter gown and Jimmy Choo stilettos I sported the last time. No, for the current foray, my Lycra garb more closely resembled Catwoman with my blonde hair hidden under a dark hood. Night vision goggles finished off the ensemble. The difference between arriving invited versus an incognito—and illegal—entrance.
As I slipped through the mansion's side door, the left wall security pad flashed. I patted the ring of leather pouches attached to my belt and removed a cute little gizmo I'd picked up in Zurich that resembled a garage door opener. Only this handy gadget decoded electronic security systems, rendering them harmless. The tiny warning whine never had a chance to turn into a scream; my device made friends and invited us to enter.
I slipped down the rear hall and up the staircase that my research had uncovered in a back issue of
Architectural Digest
. At the upper landing, infrared lasers protected the area from unwelcome visitors. I opened another pouch, withdrew a small, specially formulated aerosol can, and sprayed in a sweeping pattern. As the particles fell, laser lines were revealed in vivid detail. Seconds later, I'd picked the lock on the turret gallery door.
The last time I stood in that room the master of the house provided a guided tour and made a blatant pass beneath the gaze of a Dutch Master. My ability to deflect the Lothario took grace and diplomacy, plus restraint to curb my strong desire to disable his favorite body part. Still, the event had been worth the effort. A six-month quest was over, and I had found my Holy Grail of paintings.
"My father started this collection," the slimy billionaire had bragged. "He made purchases while stationed in Europe in the mid-1940s. I added to the works and specially constructed this temperature-controlled castle safe-room."
On this return visit—my acquisition finale—I slid into the darkened gallery. The circular space, lit only by the minimal luminosity filtering through a half-dozen narrow arched windows, allowed my shadow to mix with those already in residence. Night vision goggles allowed the glorious set of Rembrandts and French Impressionists to glow alongside the beauty I came to liberate.
It was a vibrant seascape, circa 1821, and a breathtaking scene of energy and clear passion. A little known work by a well-respected artist, which had been cherished by the family of its previous owner before eventually falling into the hands of the billionaire's father. Gazing upon the work, I could almost hear the buoy bell ringing in the distance, but the room's current illumination left the scene too dark to see beyond the receding foamy water. I shivered as if the wind picked up; the painting was that powerful.
I heard a noise. A human-moving noise.
I had to hurry. I slipped a blade from my belt and ran it along the frame's edge.
The moment the canvas was free, I heard the master of the house bark, "What are you doing?"
I spun to find him standing behind me. Holding his gaze, I sheathed my knife and dug into another pouch, then threw a capped vial into the darkness between myself and potential capture. The glass broke, and when the chemicals inside hit the air, a dense smoke obscured all vision. But I had already calculated the distance to the nearest window, moved to it, and affixed a suction cup with a braided nylon line to the wall. The painting protected in one hand, my remaining gloved fist, fitted with brass knuckles, shattered the narrow pane. I slid through the turret's slit-window, taking a few shards of glass along for the ride. Then I rappelled down the rough stone wall to the manicured lawn.
"Zeus! Apollo! Robbery! Attack!" my impotent enemy screamed.
*
Next morning, the painting and I slipped into the back of Greg's shop for the new frame constructed per my specifications. A close facsimile to photos, and infinitely better than the garish gold number that restrained the seascape during its turret imprisonment, the burnished brass frame even evoked a nautical theme that conjured the look of a spyglass.