Murder, She Edited

Book 4: Deadly Edits

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

Genres: Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The bestselling author of the Liss MacCrimmon mysteries continues her new booklovers mystery series featuring freelance editor Mikki Lincoln and her keen-eyed cat Calpurnia.



When Mikki inherits a nearby farm from a woman she hasn't seen in two decades, the unexpected arrangement comes with a big catch: forgotten diaries hidden in the neglected house must be recovered, edited, and published across the internet within one month. The lonely locale is like an untouched time capsule from the 1950s, and it was left behind for good reason.



While searching for the mysterious memoirs and clues about the former owners, Mikki discovers that the once peaceful place was punctuated by an unsolved homicide and other rumored crimes. Worse, suspicious activity in the creepy, dilapidated barn suggests it really hasn't been abandoned at all . . .



In a remote farmhouse with only her observant calico cat, Calpurnia, keeping her company, Mikki must swiftly crack an eerie cold case from the past and stop a clever culprit from leaving red markups on anything other than pages of revised copy . . .

Release date: July 27, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 246

Sample

“Featherstone, De Vane, Doherty, Sanchez, and Schiller.” I read the return address aloud as I carried the day’s mail inside. “Now there’s a mouthful for you, Cal.”

The sheer number of names embossed on the flap were enough to identify the sender as a law firm. I tossed the rest of what I’d collected from the mailbox on my front porch—a flyer from the local grocery store and a postcard from my nephew, currently on vacation in Hawaii—onto the hall table and took the letter with me into the living room.

My faithful feline companion, Calpurnia, made no comment. She padded silently after me to hop up onto the loveseat and watch intently from the adjoining cushion as I extracted a thick, expensive-looking sheet of stationery from the envelope and skimmed its contents.

I could almost feel frown lines etching themselves into my forehead as I read. I started over from the top but there was no mistake. That I was the intended recipient was made abundantly clear by the fact that I was not only identified as Michelle Greenleigh Lincoln, widow of James Lincoln, but also as the daughter of Alfred and Catherine (Kitty) Coburg Greenleigh. What the letter did not explain was why I’d apparently inherited a “parcel of land” from a woman I’d last seen nearly two decades ago.

To be completely truthful, it took me a few minutes to remember who Tessa Swarthout was. When I did, and considered what little I knew of her, I still couldn’t come up with any explanation for the unexpected inheritance.

Tessa and my late mother grew up together. Although they didn’t see a lot of each other once they reached adulthood, Mom always referred to Tessa as her best friend. In other words, they were BFFs long before that term became popular.

I did remember the last time I’d seen Tessa. It was when I took my widowed mother, then in her eighties, to visit her old friend in a retirement community in Connecticut. I did some quick mental calculations. If Tessa had only just died, she must have been over a hundred years old. Remarkable! I turned seventy-one last December and I’m in pretty good shape for an old broad, but I have no expectation of surviving for a full century. I’m not sure I’d want to.

Calpurnia put her front paws on my thigh and nuzzled my hand, reminding me that I’d neglected to pet her for at least fifteen minutes. I remedied that situation at once, rhythmically stroking her multicolored fur while I read the letter a third time.

It was singularly lacking in details, but did suggest that I call “at my earliest convenience” to make an appointment with Leland Featherstone, senior partner in the law firm. I ran my finger over the embossed letterhead. If this was a scam, the perpetrators had spared no expense.

Gently shifting Cal out of the way, I abandoned the living room for the kitchen. I’d left my laptop on the table in the dining alcove, what my mother always called the “dinette.”

I was born and raised in Lenape Hollow, New York, a small town in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. At eighteen, I left to attend college in Maine. Fifty years passed before I gave any thought to returning. By then, I’d been retired from teaching for some time and had recently been widowed. I was debating the wisdom of trying to go it alone in the rural location where my husband and I had long made our home. I could have managed, but I was ready for a change. When I received word of an approaching high school reunion, I was curious enough to look up Lenape Hollow online and, lo and behold, there was a real estate ad for the house I grew up in, the one my parents sold the same year I moved away. To make a long story short, I gave in to an impulse and bought it back.

That was just over three years ago. I won’t say everything has gone smoothly since, but I’m happy with my decision. Thanks to my new career as a freelance editor—a book doctor, if you will—I’ve been able to pay for necessary repairs on the place and Calpurnia and I have settled in quite comfortably.

I’d been using the laptop to edit a chapter in a textbook for a client when I heard the mailman on the porch and decided it was time for a break. Now, settling into the dinette chair once more, I saved my work, made a backup copy, exited the word processing program, connected to a search engine, and typed in the name of the law firm. What came up on the screen reassured me that they were legitimate. Venerable, even. I took a few moments to study the vita and photo of Leland Featherstone, Esquire, before I reached for the phone.

A quarter of an hour later, I had an appointment for the next day at ten. I was a little surprised he could fit me in so quickly, and more curious than ever as to why Tessa Swarthout had left me a bequest.

I had plans that evening. After an early supper, I changed out of my summer working clothes—baggy shorts and a T-shirt—and made myself slightly more presentable in lightweight slacks and a sleeveless top. I took a sweater, since even in mid-July it can get chilly once the sun goes down. I debated briefly whether to drive or walk before deciding in favor of stretching my legs. Lenape Hollow Memorial Library isn’t all that far from my house, and I felt certain someone would offer to give me a lift home after the Friends of the Library meeting.

In less than ten minutes I’d descended the hill between Wedemeyer Terrace and Main Street and was halfway to my destination. The library, a new building since my teen years, is situated between a grocery store and the old redbrick elementary school—the same building that housed K–12 until I was in eleventh grade. That was when our brand-new high school opened. A half century later, that structure is in a sorry state while the “old” school seems likely to hold up for another hundred years. As the saying goes, “they just don’t build ’em like they used to.”

Most of the meeting, held in a medium-size multifunction room, was so routine as to be boring. We heard the treasurer’s report and approved the cost of a field trip for the kids in the summer reading program. Then we discussed various fundraising activities, including the annual used book sale. I’d let my mind wander, wondering about my appointment with the lawyer the next day, when I suddenly realized that someone had just suggested that we increase the number of pages in the library newsletter.

I made haste to speak up. “Let’s not get carried away. Copies may be printed as well as posted online, but we’re not publishing a book. If the newsletter is too long, no one will read it. Important information will be lost in a sea of trivia.”

My argument against expansion had an ulterior motive. At a previous Friends of the Library meeting, I’d made the mistake of letting myself be “volunteered” to edit this monthly publication. Make that write, edit, and produce. It’s not an onerous task, but it can be time-consuming, and time is one thing I try not to waste. My work as a freelance editor already keeps me a bit busier than I want to be.

One of my post-retirement goals was to “stop and smell the roses.” Everyone benefits from pausing now and again to enjoy the scenery. Writers call it “refilling the well” and expand the definition to include finding opportunities, every once in a while, to try something new and adventurous.

But I digress.

Since no one else in the Friends of the Library was foolish enough to want to take over as newsletter editor, my preference prevailed. I wondered if I should have taken advantage of the moment to lobby for fewer pages, but the moderator quickly moved on to the next item of business and I lost my chance.

In short order, the meeting came to a close and we descended on an array of desserts and drinks set out on a side table. Once I’d carried a plate overflowing with goodies back to my chair, my good friend Darlene Uberman rolled to a stop beside me. A quick glance at her lap assured me that she’d had no difficulty raiding the buffet.

“You want to avoid the gingersnaps,” she warned me, making a face. “They’re tasty, but you could break a tooth biting into one.”

“Figures.” I’d taken three, passing up a delicious-looking slice of lemon pound cake.

Darlene and I are the same age. We were friends in high school, but lost touch once I moved away from Lenape Hollow. I was shocked when I first saw her again. The usual changes made by getting older weren’t particularly unexpected—she was, to use her own words, “twice the woman she used to be” in the weight department and her hair had gone entirely white, while I was no longer the skinny kid I’d been during my teen years either, and my hair, once an ordinary medium brown, had turned that odd shade of gray that looks blond in the right lighting.

What I didn’t expect were the deep lines chronic pain had etched in Darlene’s face. She suffers from osteoarthritis in just about every joint in her body. It was so bad that by the time she turned sixty-two she had to take early retirement, giving up her post as head librarian, a job she loved. How well she functions from day to day depends, to a great extent, on the weather and on whether or not her meds are working. Sometimes she can walk unassisted and even do light housework like vacuuming and dusting. At others she needs what she refers to as “motorized transport,” a battery-powered scooter, to get from one room to the next. She was using it this evening, but despite her mobility issues, she was in an upbeat mood. When she gave me the side-eye, her facial expression put me in mind of a mischievous elf.

“What’s up?” she asked. “I was watching you during the meeting. You looked as if you were a million miles away.”

“Not nearly so far. I have to go to Monticello tomorrow to talk to a lawyer.” It would take me less than thirty minutes to drive there.

“A lawyer? Why?” She narrowed her eyes even more, until I could barely make out the cornflower blue of her irises. “What have you done now?”

I pretended to be offended. “Me? I’ll have you know I’m a paragon of virtue and rectitude.”

“Ooh! Big words! Now you’ve put me in my place.”

We grinned at each other. If we hadn’t been out in public, we might very well have giggled like a couple of schoolgirls. Old friends can get away with that.

The thought sobered me. Without thinking, I bit into a gingersnap and instantly regretted it.

Darlene was watching me closely. She could tell my grimace wasn’t entirely due to the texture of the cookie. “Seriously—are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Not at all. It might even be good news.”

I shrugged off my sudden sense of unease and scanned our surroundings. The crowd, if you could call two dozen people a crowd, was beginning to thin out. Pam Ingram, the current head librarian, a sturdily built thirty-something brunette notable for her organizational skills, her endless patience with library patrons, and her peaches-and-cream complexion, was starting the cleanup, assisted by one of her library aides.

“Give me a lift home and I’ll tell you what little I know.”

“Done,” Darlene agreed.

Since she’s had plenty of practice, it didn’t take her long to collapse the scooter and stash it in the back of her van. She heaved herself into the driver’s seat with the help of the grab handle above the door and started the engine while I settled myself in the passenger seat. Before she put the vehicle in motion, she sent me the kind of look librarians reserve for disruptive patrons and teachers bestow on recalcitrant students.

“Okay, Mikki. Spill.”

I gave her the gist of the letter I’d received from the lawyer.

“Tessa Swarthout? That name doesn’t ring any bells.” She pulled out of the library parking lot.

“I doubt you’d have met her. She didn’t live in Lenape Hollow.”

“How did you know her?”

“She used to come to the house to see my mother from time to time.” Now that I thought about it, I realized that Tessa had been a fixture in my very early childhood. “I have a vague memory of going to see her once, too.”

“Where?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. Somewhere out in the countryside. I remember that she lived in an old farmhouse with creaky floorboards, and that it seemed to take a long time to drive there. Of course, I was just a kid at the time. In reality it may not have been all that far away.”

“If she was close to your mother, wouldn’t they have grown up in the same town?”

“Probably, but that doesn’t help pinpoint the location. Mom never talked much about her childhood, except to say that her family moved to Monticello in time for her to play against Lenape Hollow in high school basketball tournaments.”

Darlene pulled into my driveway and put the van in park. “Well, I guess you’ll find out more tomorrow.”

I started to gather up my sweater and tote bag.

“You really don’t remember anything else?”

“I was pretty young when we visited Tessa. Under ten.” I frowned. “I think there may have been one or two other women living there with her. A sister, maybe? And their mother?” I shook my head. “I can’t be sure. I mean, think about it—how much does anyone remember of events that took place more than sixty years ago?”

The following morning I drove to Monticello, the county seat, for my meeting at the law offices of Featherstone, De Vane, Doherty, Sanchez, and Schiller. They were located in one of the oldest buildings in town, a brick edifice near the courthouse.

Leland Featherstone was every bit as dignified as his surroundings. He wore an exquisitely tailored, pin-striped suit accessorized with a burgundy tie and a matching silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. I put his age at around eighty, based on a shock of snowy white hair and hands that pulsed with big blue veins, but his carriage remained erect and he refused to resume his seat until I sat down. Only after I’d done so did he lower himself, a bit stiffly, into the plush chair behind his enormous desk.

Old school, I thought, and a bit of a dandy. A whiff of expensive aftershave tickled my nose.

The entire office was stuffed with mementoes of a long and illustrious career in the law. Framed degrees and certificates shared wall space with photos that showed him in the company of an assortment of politicians, celebrities, and local movers and shakers. There was even one of him posing with my old high school nemesis, Veronica North. That didn’t surprise me. Ronnie is quite well-to-do, thanks to outliving three wealthy husbands, and has a finger in many civic pies.

Outside, the mid-July day was hot and humid and predicted to become more so. Inside, Mr. Featherstone had the air-conditioning turned up full blast. I have to admit I’d rather be chilly than overheated, but the temperature was a bit on the cold side even for me. I was glad I’d decided to wear slacks instead of a skirt, and that the sleeves of my cotton blouse were three-quarter length.

“Well, now, Ms. Lincoln,” Featherstone began, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to see some identification.”

I fished in my tote bag for my wallet and produced my driver’s license. The photo was unflattering but eminently recognizable. He scrutinized it carefully before returning it.

“I understand you’re a retired schoolteacher.”

“That’s correct.” I wondered what my former profession had to do with being one of Tessa’s heirs, but I assumed he’d explain in his own good time.

“And that you currently edit manuscripts on a freelance basis?”

“Also correct.”

He consulted notes made on a legal pad. “Are you settled permanently in Lenape Hollow?”

“I bought my house there three years ago,” I told him. “I have no plans to move again.”

He nodded in what appeared to be approval. “Excellent. Well, as I said in my letter, you are one of the beneficiaries named in the will of Tessa Swarthout. I assume you know who she was.”

“More or less. She was one of my mother’s oldest friends, but I never had much to do with her.”

This seemed to confuse him. “She didn’t keep in touch with you?”

“As I said, she was my mother’s friend, not mine, and even with Mom there were years during which their only contact came from an exchange of Christmas cards.”

A snippet of conversation with my mother on the day I’d driven her to visit Tessa had come back to me the previous night. Mom had complained that Tessa never bothered to scribble a note on those cards, let alone enclose a newsy annual letter. She just scrawled her name beneath a generic holiday greeting.

“To be honest,” I continued, “I didn’t realize Ms. Swarthout was still alive. My mother’s been gone since 2004.”

“Tessa Swarthout was one hundred and two when she died. She updated her will just last year.”

Since I didn’t know what to say to that, I kept my mouth shut. Patience, I told myself. He’ll get around to explaining everything eventually.

After a long, thoughtful pause, Featherstone finally got down to the nitty-gritty. “The property you’re to inherit was Ms. Swarthout’s family home just outside Swan’s Crossing.”

I nodded to signify that I’d heard of the place. At a guess, the hamlet of Swan’s Crossing was no more than a forty-minute drive from Lenape Hollow. My inheritance appeared to be the same house I’d visited with my mother all those years ago.

“I understand it was once operated as a small dairy farm,” Featherstone continued, “and that the family took in boarders during the Season.”

Having grown up in Sullivan County, I didn’t need further explanation. The Season—make that tourist season—ran from Memorial Day until Labor Day. When I was a kid, our little corner of the world was known as the Borscht Belt. Huge luxury resort hotels catered to a clientele, mostly Jewish, from the City. That’s New York City, of course. Is there any other? Supposedly the movie Dirty Dancing gets the details right. I don’t know. I’ve only seen snippets, and as a “townie” who never worked at any of the resorts, I was never part of that milieu.

I knew more about the bungalow colonies that catered to the less affluent overflow and sometimes housed the singers and comedians hired to perform at the big hotels. The heyday of those accommodations ran from the 1930s all the way to the early 1970s, when societal changes and the increased availability of air travel had prompted tourists to move on to other locales.

Prior to that era, and continuing through some of it, the countryside had also been littered with smaller hotels, some of which blatantly excluded guests on the basis of religion, color, and country of origin. In addition, there had been hundreds of farm-boardinghouses. Their owners augmented the income they earned raising dairy cows or chickens by taking in boarders during the summer months. In some ways, I suppose they were the rough equivalent of the modern-day B and B, except that they supplied lunch and dinner, too, and sometimes even offered entertainment. Farm stock ponds provided places to swim, fish, and boat. The way I understand it, just the chance to breathe fresh air was a big draw for city folk back in the day.

“The house and some outbuildings are still standing,” Featherstone continued, “but no one has lived there for some time and there are no near neighbors.”

From his failure to meet my eyes and the way he kept fiddling with an antique fountain pen, turning it over and over in his knobby-knuckled fingers, I had a feeling the lawyer was leading up to something, most likely something I wouldn’t enjoy hearing.

He cleared his throat. “There is a condition attached to the bequest.”

When he glanced up I sent a polite smile his way but said nothing. Wait for it, I thought.

“Within a month of being notified of your inheritance, in other words, by the fifteenth of August, you are required to edit any diaries you find in the farmhouse. Further, you are to arrange to have the completed transcripts posted at a number of sites on the Internet. Ms. Swarthout made a list of the ones she had in mind.”

He handed over a printout that named several prominent social media outlets and specified that there was also to be an e-book, although I had an additional two weeks to put that into production. I don’t know which surprised me more, the condition itself or the fact that a hundred-and-two-year-old woman was sufficiently computer savvy to know where her legacy would best be preserved.

“How many diaries?” I asked.

“She never said.”

“Do you know who wrote them?”

“I know nothing about them.”

Somehow I didn’t think we were talking about the kind of diary I received as a Christmas present when I was eleven, a fat little volume with a bright pink cover and a lock so flimsy a two-year-old could have broken it. It contained one page for each day of the year—not enough space for much reflection; too much if all you were going to do was record the weather. I’d ended up filling the pages with clippings from TV Guide. I have no idea what happened to that record of my pre-teen viewing preferences. I expect it was tossed out when my parents moved away from. . .