Fortune's Wheel

  Fortune’s Wheel

  A Claire Rollins Cozy Mystery Book 4

  J. A. Whiting

  Copyright 2017 J.A. Whiting

  Cover copyright 2017 Susan Coils at www.coverkicks.com

  Formatting by Signifer Book Design

  Proofreading by Donna Rich

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to locales, actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from J. A. Whiting.

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  Created with Vellum

  For my family with love

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Thank you for reading!

  Books/Series By J. A. Whiting

  About the Author

  1

  On the beautiful September morning, a line of customers had formed out the door and along the sidewalk waiting to get into the North End chocolate shop. Ever since Nicole, Claire, and Robby won the grand prize in the Boston Summer Food Festival the chocolate sweets could not be produced fast enough and sold out almost every day.

  Nicole, thirty years old with long, dark hair and brown eyes, was the owner of the shop and she had to be reminded frequently that too many customers was a good problem to have.

  When there was a lull in the action, thirty-five-year-old Claire Rollins, an employee in the shop and a friend of Nicole’s, stepped out from behind the counter to clean the tops of the unoccupied café tables and sweep the floor.

  Claire glanced over to where Tessa Wilcox sat at a table in the corner of the shop with another woman. The two had their heads together in an earnest conversation and Claire noticed some colorful cards spread out on the table between them.

  Moving to clean off a vacant table by the window, Claire was about to push aside a newspaper that was left behind by a customer until a headline caught her eye, Mysterious Murder of Cambridge Graduate Student Still Baffles Police, and she paused to scan the article. After reading the first paragraph, Claire, with a cloth in her hand, sank down onto the chair, engrossed in the story of the nearly thirty-five-year-old murder.

  Sandy-haired Robby Evans, a part-time worker at the shop and full-time college student, paused next to Claire after delivering a latte to a man seated by the windows. With his hand on his hip, he said, “Sitting down on the job I see.”

  “Huh?” Claire raised her eyes and pushed a loose strand of her curly blond hair from her eyes. “Oh, this article is….” She pointed at the headline. “It drew me in. It’s a really odd case.”

  Robby took a look at the newspaper and after reading the headline, he stepped back with a shudder and raised his hand with his palm towards Claire. “No thanks. No cold cases. Present day life has more than enough crime and intrigue for me.” The young music student had recently been involved in a murder case that Claire and Nicole had been sucked into. “Which, just so you know, I would like a break from criminals and murderers.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Claire said automatically, not really paying attention as her mind was keenly focused on the story she was reading. When Nicole came over a few minutes later and sat at the table, Claire didn’t even notice.

  “Claire,” Nicole said.

  Claire pulled herself away from the story and looked up. “I didn’t hear you sit down.” She slid the news article over to her friend. “Take a look at this. It’s about a cold case from years ago. A graduate student was murdered in Cambridge. The case has some weird elements to it.”

  Nicole glanced warily at the newspaper. “What kind of weird elements?”

  “The woman, Leslie Sanborn Baker, was a second year graduate student studying for her Ph.D. in archaeology. She was found bludgeoned to death in her apartment. She wasn’t sexually assaulted, no one heard any screams, nothing was stolen, and, get this, there was red powder sprinkled around the room and on the body.”

  “Red powder?” Nicole’s nose scrunched up.

  “Yes,” Claire leaned forward, the blond curl falling back near her eye. “No one has ever been accused of the crime. The reporter mentioned in the article requested the case records, but the District Attorney’s office refused.”

  “Why would they refuse?” Nicole tilted her head.

  “Good question.”

  Nicole said, “Cold cases like these often benefit from files being released. New information gets discovered. Sometimes, the crime is even solved because the release of the file information brings in new evidence.”

  “That’s exactly the point being made in the article.” Claire pushed the paper closer to Nicole.

  Nicole read the first few paragraphs and then looked up at Claire with a surprised expression. “The guy in the story, Marty Wyatt, is trying to get the crime records released. He’s a private citizen. Why would he want to do that?”

  “The article says Wyatt was a young journalist at the time of the murder,” Claire noted. “He was assigned to cover the case. It was one of the first stories he ever reported on.”

  “I wonder why he’s bringing up the case now?” Nicole asked.

  “Maybe the story haunts him. Maybe he is upset that no one was brought to justice.” Claire noticed that their friend, Tessa, had glanced over to them several times from the corner table and when Claire made eye contact with the woman, Tessa looked away.

  “What does the article say about the red powder?” Nicole asked. “What was that about?”

  “It reports that there was red powder sprinkled around the crime scene. The powder is called ochre. The story quotes an archeology professor who said the substance was used in ancient Persian burials.”

  “The woman was studying to be an archeologist?” Nicole asked.

  “Yes. She also studied ancient cultures,” Claire told her.

  “So the killer must have had knowledge of ancient burial practices.” Nicole looked alarmed. “Having that knowledge would probably cut way down on the list of suspects.”

  “Ochre is also used by artists,” Claire said. “Leslie Baker painted, so the powder may have been in her apartment because she used it in her artwork.”

  “That seems more likely, doesn’t it?” Nicole asked.

  “And, guess what?” Claire pointed to a paragraph in the article. “Someone else was murdered in the same building complex five years earlier.”

  Nicole’s eyes widened. “Were the two deaths related or was it coincidence?”

  “Authorities don’t seem to know for sure, but they lean towards the killings being a coincidence.”

  “Someone should raze that building.” Nicole turned the newspaper over so the story was facing down. “Who would rent an apartment in that place? Gosh, the two murdered women didn’t rent the same apartmen
t, did they?”

  “It didn’t mention anything about that.”

  Nicole shook her head sadly. “It’s a strange world, isn’t it? Thirty-five years ago, the same terrible things that are going on today were happening back then.”

  Claire let out a sigh. “It’s sad to say, but these kinds of things have been going on throughout human history.”

  “And unfortunately, things don’t change,” Nicole said with a groan.

  The woman Tessa had been taking with gathered her things, smiled, said a few final words to Tessa, and then left the shop. Claire looked over at the table and met Tessa’s eyes. The auburn-haired woman lifted one of the cards and held it up for Claire to see.

  Nicole stood up. “I’m going to start the next batch of the caramel-swirl brownies.”

  “I’ll be there in a second.” Claire nodded to her friend. “I’ll unload the dishwasher and then get going on the macarons.”

  When Nicole disappeared into the back room, Claire crossed to Tessa’s table with a smile. “I see you’re trying to get my attention.”

  Tessa, in her late fifties, pointed to the tarot card that had an eight-spoked wheel in the center. The god, Anubis, rose from the right side of the card and a snake descended on the left. Four symbols, one in each corner, represented the elements of earth, wind, fire, water.

  “Wheel of Fortune,” Claire read the words along the bottom of the card. Looking at it made her heart skip a beat.

  “This card can mean different things depending on where it comes up in a reading and which cards are around it.” Tessa did tarot readings for people as a part-time occupation and had also helped Claire better understand her strong intuitive skills. Ever since her husband died, Claire could sometimes pick up information about a person by touching them or shaking their hands. She could also sense things from situations and her ability was so strong that Tessa classified it as paranormal.

  Tessa said, “I think of this as the wheel of the Roman goddess, Fortuna, the goddess of luck, chance, fate. Who knows how the wheel of fortune will land? Life can bring prosperity. It can also bring disaster.” Tessa locked eyes with Claire.

  “Why are you showing me this?” A shiver ran along Claire’s skin.

  “You need to remember that the wheel can bring change and no matter what that change may be, you can handle it with reason, strength of character, and a stable sensibility.”

  “Is change coming?” Claire asked as apprehension tugged at her.

  “What you were reading about in that newspaper….” Tessa turned the Wheel of Fortune card over. “It’s floating on the air in here. It might try to suck you into it and if it does, you will need to be strong. You will also need to be very careful, Claire.”

  Trying to brush off the idea of danger, Claire gave a shrug. “I don’t know how it could drag me into it. It was just a story about an old murder case.”

  When Tessa tilted her head to the side and her face took on a skeptical expression, her dark auburn curls bounced around her face. The woman had nearly flawless skin and perfect white teeth. “What case is it? Did it happen in Boston?”

  “In Cambridge. A graduate student was killed. It was a long time ago.”

  Tessa’s jaw muscle tensed as the color drained from her face, but before she could speak, the door to the chocolate shop opened and Claire’s boyfriend, Detective Ian Fuller, walked in with a grave expression on his face. When he spotted Claire, he headed over to her with slow, heavy steps.

  Ian greeted Tessa and gave Claire a hug. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I have a favor to ask you … Nicole, too.”

  “Is everything okay?” Claire put her hand on Ian’s arm, worried about the concerned look in his eyes.

  “I just want to talk to you about an old cold case.”

  The little, blond hairs on Claire’s arms stood up. “A cold case?”

  Ian said, “It’s starting to get some new attention. A guy I know asked me to have a look at the information he’s gathered on the crime. Since you and Nicole have been helpful on recent cases, I’d like to talk to you about this one.”

  “Sure.” Claire’s heart began to race. “Nicole’s working in back. I’ll go get her.”

  “Thanks.” Ian’s face brightened. “I’d like to get your input.”

  Claire started for the back room, but turned back to her boyfriend. “Who’s the guy who asked for your help?”

  “Marty Wyatt. He used to be a journalist.”

  Marty Wyatt was the man mentioned in the newspaper article as the young journalist who covered the murder of Leslie Sanborn Baker over three decades ago.

  Claire’s throat tightened as she took a quick look at Tessa.

  Fortune’s wheel was turning.

  2

  When a crowd of customers came into the chocolate shop, it was decided that Nicole and Ian would meet at Claire’s townhouse for dinner so Ian could share information about the cold case. Claire’s apartment was located in a small neighborhood of historic brownstones known as Adamsburg Square at the edge of Beacon Hill. The neighborhood consisted of several cobblestone streets with brick walkways and old-fashioned streetlamps.

  Claire’s townhouse had a large living room with three enormous windows and a sliding glass door that opened to a small garden with a rectangle patch of lawn, two shade trees, and a brick patio all enclosed by a high white fence. The townhouse also had a large dining room, a renovated, high-end kitchen, two bedrooms, and a small private basement.

  Claire’s rescue Corgis, Bear and Lady, rested in the grass while the three people sat on the patio finishing their dinner of chili, corn bread, rice, and salad. When coffee, tea, and chocolate-swirl cheesecake were brought out, Ian placed a folder on the outdoor table and they got down to business.

  Ian said, “Marty Wyatt worked as a journalist for a couple of years before going back to school for a master’s degree in public policy. He’s worked as a consultant in government and business and teaches college courses. I met him about six years ago when we both served on a government task force. He’s a good guy.” Ian paused and took a long swallow of his coffee and when he set down the mug, he let out a sigh. “Marty recently got some bad news about his health. He only has about a year left.”

  Claire’s eyes filled with sadness. “The poor man.”

  “How old is Marty?” Nicole asked.

  “He just turned fifty-five. Marty’s been haunted by the death of the young woman. He wants to try and solve the case before he dies and if he isn’t successful, at least he’ll have brought the case back into prominence which might help someone else find the killer.”

  “Is he sure he wants to spend his last year on something so terrible?” Nicole asked.

  Ian gave a slight nod. “I asked him the same question. Marty wants justice for the woman. He wants to use the time he has left to find the person responsible for her death.”

  “We read the article that was in the newspaper today,” Claire said. “There are a lot of strange aspects to the case.”

  Ian said, “You read that the DA’s office won’t release any of the records? It’s been thirty-three years, but they will not give up any of the case information.”

  “Is that unusual?” Claire questioned.

  “Not really. Not in this state, anyway. The DA’s office doesn’t want to jeopardize any possible future prosecution by releasing details publicly. Should someone ultimately confess, the authenticity of that confession could be questioned if information that only the killer would know has been made public.”

  “That makes sense,” Claire said. “But, it’s been so long. Wouldn’t releasing some of the information help the case? The DA’s office wouldn’t need to reveal everything, but a few pieces of information might spark people to come forward with what they knew.”

  “That’s the argument being made by Marty,” Ian told them. “He has appealed the decision to withhold. He isn’t hopeful, which is one reason he’s asked me to look over what he knows.” Ope
ning the folder, Ian shuffled through some papers until he found what he wanted. “I’ll give you a summary of his case notes. You might know some of it already from reading the article in the news. The victim was twenty-three-year-old Leslie Sanborn Baker. She was working on her doctorate in archaeology and was supposed to take a final exam on the day she was found murdered. Her boyfriend, Peter Safer, went to the apartment around noon to ask how the exam went and he discovered the body.”

  Nicole let out a groan. “How terrible.”

  “There isn’t a clear motive for the crime,” Ian went on. “There was money on the dresser, three hundred dollars in cash, but it wasn’t touched. No valuables were taken. Not a single person reported hearing any screams or noise of a struggle. In fact, there were no signs of struggle in the apartment so investigators surmise that Leslie was asleep when the intruder broke in or she knew the killer and willingly let the person in.”

  “She was found in bed?” Claire asked.

  “Yes, she was found in bed wearing a nightgown with the blankets pulled up around her.” Ian checked his notes. “In addition, there was a coat, a small, rectangular rug, and two other blankets piled on top of her covering her head.”

  A shiver of anxiety rushed through Claire’s veins. “Why would someone do that?”

  “There are theories, but nothing definitive. Some think it might have been a symbolic act of burial. Others say it may have been because the killer felt remorse and didn’t want to see the young woman’s face. There could have been other reasons.”