Murder by Design Trilogy Read online

  Murder By Design Trilogy

  Box Set – Books 1 through 3

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  Table of Contents

  Murder by Design

  …dreams of haute couture! Book 1

  Labeled in Seattle

  …the beginning! Book 2

  Choices

  …and the courage to risk! Book 3

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  Map: Puget Sound Area

  REVIEW REQUEST

  Suggested reading: THE BABY QUILT

  Books by Mary Jane Forbes

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  Murder by Design

  …dreams of haute couture!

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  Murder by Design Trilogy, Book 1

  She’s got an eye for fashion. He’s got a knack for solving crimes.

  Can two total strangers solve the perfect murder?

  Gillianne “Gilly” Wilder has an eye for design and big dreams of taking on the fashion industry. After years of scrimping and saving, she’s a few paychecks away from her first semester at Seattle’s prestigious school of design. But before her first class begins, her small Washington hometown takes a bloody turn when a dead body washes ashore. And Gilly can’t help but get distracted by the handsome reporter who comes to investigate.

  Skip Hunter dreams of trading in beat reporting for writing bestselling thrillers. When a murderer strikes a sleepy Washington town, he thinks solving the case could be the perfect material for his debut novel. But he soon finds his hands full when a gold heist hits the same sleepy town. As he tries to connect the crimes, he meets a beautiful wanna-be designer who’s standing a bit too close to the line of fire.

  After they start working together to crack the case, they can't help the sparks flying between them. When the killer stands between them and their future, can Gilly and Skip find the courage to follow their heart before they become the next victims?

  For my sister Miriam

  Our mom and dad bought, remodeled, and retired to the charming Hansville home overlooking Puget Sound depicted in this story.

  On my vacations from Boston, my sister and I would make a dash on the morning ferry to the fabric warehouse on Seattle’s waterfront to pick out material. Before returning on the afternoon ferry, we enjoyed lunch and a glass of wine at Ivar’s.

  Over the subsequent seven days I’d sew several outfits for her from the bits and pieces we found on our shopping spree. Of course, there was always time for the family cocktail hour down over the bank once we maneuvered the rickety stairs to the deck below.

  This book was a lovely, nostalgic walk down memory lane.

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  About the Author

  Cozy romantic mysteries wrapped in suspense.

  My goal is to entertain, to transport you away from the stress of the day, to live for a short while in someone else’s world—at times to shed a tear, other times to set your heart beating, and always to add a few chuckles.

  Fodder for my books comes from news stories—cybercrime to tiny houses, the stock market to the emergence of bitcoins, family to ancestor’s DNA, cookie baking contests to terrorists. Unearthing the facts buried under the headlines sends me on fascinating journeys gaining insight into the stories behind the news. I weave my research, what I learn along the way, into my plots making them richer.

  Back to work. My mind’s swirling with notes tacked on another storyboard. Twists and turns as I tackle a new plot in my studio loft…a space overlooking a pond edged with palmetto bushes in Port Orange, Florida.

  Please drop me a line, a review is always welcome…enjoy!

  Chapter 1

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  “THAT’S WHAT GIRLS DO. They sew.”

  “Gillianne doesn’t sew. She designs.” Annie turned on her side, scrunching the pillow beneath her head. “Sure, she’s sewn since her foot reached the pedal on that old Singer, but designing was what caught her imagination.”

  “Designing—that’s for rich folks.” Will laid staring at the ceiling. “She needs a real job. At twenty-four I expect her to contribute to the household if she’s going to live at home.”

  “Will, she doesn’t sew. She sketches … she designs, and creates beautiful dresses,” Annie said ignoring her husband. “She says she’s creating a look.”

  “A look? I’ll tell you what it looks like. She’s living a fantasy life. I told her, Annie, when she graduated from high school we expected her to work. You and I did. We didn’t live off our parents. As for the sketching—that’s all she does. She sees no one, has no friends. Of course, if she had any she wouldn’t be able to see them because they’d be working.”

  “Will, Gilly’s always entertained herself.”

  “Just because she’s our only child, doesn’t mean she can shirk her responsibility. She spends too much time alone. No wonder she’s always sketching.”

  “Remember how she loved the little box of crayons every Christmas. She wore them down to a nub in no time. She’s been sketching since the time her little fist could hold them. Colored pencils the same … in grade school stacking fashion magazines under her bed.”

  “Don’t get me started on the fortune we gave her to buy those magazines.”

  “She didn’t buy very many. She had a deal with the general store, bought the old ones cheap when the new issues came out.”

  Will clenched his teeth. “You’re not hearing me.”

  “She has a job. At the boutique.”

  “Boutique? That’s not a real job. It’s part of her fantasy life. And now look what she’s done. Barmaid at a casino. A casino when she could work in an office right here in Port Gamble. No, not here—Seattle.”

  “Will, you mean commuting?”

  “A real job. Not a casino.”

  “She makes good money, with her tips and all. She’s saving to take some classes … in Seattle. Fashion design classes.”

  “Annie, you’re not listening to me … I was laid off today.”

  “What?” Anne sat up, shoved her pillow up against the headboard, pushing back against it.

  The sound of crickets strumming their song drifted in the window on the warm summer air. Her husband continued to stare at the ceiling.

  “Will, why?”

  “Construction jobs have dried up. No new homes being built around here. No one has any money.”

  “Well, we’ll have to figure out how to get by—we have before. We can do it again.”

  “I asked around—nothing. My boss, excuse me, former boss, said he’d call me if he needed any part-time help.” Will swung his legs off the bed, leaned forward elbows on his knees, head down. “He has a small crew—three or four—the rest of us were let go.”

  “We don’t have much saved. None really. Maybe I can ask for more hours at the Tea Room. Can we give Gilly six months? She spends most of her time at your dad’s. He lives closer to the casino—that’ll save her gas money and she keeps him company.”

  “Annie, we may have to sell the house. Trouble is no one has any money around here to buy it.”

  “Will, not the house.” Tears welled up in Anne’s eyes. Grabbing the sheet she wiped them away, but more followed. “She’s working tomorrow night. Let’s not say anything to her right away.”

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  GILLIANNE SAT ON THE edge of her bed listening to her parents down the hall. She didn’t dare take a breath hoping what they were saying wasn’t true. Dad lost his job? She knew he thought her dream of being a designer was foolish. But work in an office?

  She angrily swiped away a tear escaping from her eye. I love him but he doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand.

  “Don’t cry, Lass.” A little man dressed in a green
suit, no more than a foot tall, big gold buckle in the middle of his pot belly. Wild red hair framed his face topped with a floppy green hat. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he handed her a tissue.

  “O’Malley, if I give money to mom and dad for household expenses I won’t be able to register for any classes. Staying with Gramps has helped me save for the tuition. I couldn’t have done it without him. Not even close. Six months—that’s not much time.”

  “Aye, but you can do it, Lass.”

  “Sell the house? To even be thinking of selling means he’s scared. We have to find a way to make it. Like mom said, we’ve done it before, we can do it again. Of course, they didn’t have me. I don’t want to be the reason they can’t make it. I just have to figure out how I can help.”

  “Aye, Lassie. Now you’re talkin.”

  O’Malley

  Chapter 2

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  A COLD, STEADY RAIN pelted the ferry. Pulling alongside the pier she smacked the pilings, a gust of wind buffeting her broadside.

  A man, standing in line to board the Edmonds ferry for her return trip across the water to Kingston, pulled his black hoodie tighter around his face. His eyes shifted rapidly scrutinizing the driver of each car that passed him bumping over the ramp into the caverns of the ferry.

  A few stragglers scurried down the pavement joining the man waiting to board the 10:25. Finally, the line of foot passengers began to move. He caught up with a group queued for coffee in front of a vending machine. Skirting them he headed for a glass door leading to the stern of the vessel. The door slid open at his approach. He stepped through and scanned the deserted deck. Slumping onto a bench covered by an overhang, he stared at the retreating dark skyline sparsely dotted with lights reflecting off the inky, frigid water of Puget Sound. He leaned back, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and shut his eyes.

  He heard footsteps approaching the bench. They stopped. Immediately on guard, he opened his eyes a slit, seeking the owner of the sound. A man sat on the bench in front of him, arms across his stomach, hands buried under his armpits, staring out at the ferry’s wake. The passenger, shiny black hair secured into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, turned around and spoke. “Cold rain.”

  “Sure is,” the hooded man replied.

  “Nice out here … not stuffy. Twenty-five minutes til we dock.”

  “You live in Kingston?” hoodie asked.

  “Naw. Bainbridge. Usually take the Seattle ferry but not tonight. Longer drive for me tonight. Get off at Kingston, pass by Hansville, and then south to Bainbridge. You?”

  “Visiting. How far to Hansville?”

  “Me and my SUV can run it from Kingston in fifteen minutes, but with this rain the winding roads will be slick. So, closer to twenty.” The passenger chuckled, scooted around the end of the bench, and sat next to hoodie.

  “You meeting someone in Kingston?” hoodie asked.

  “Naw. Going home.”

  “I’m going to Hansville. Would you mind giving me a ride? Drop me off when you head down to Bainbridge.”

  “No problem. Glad to help you on a night like this.” The passenger drifted into his own thoughts and soon his jaw dropped in a light sleep.

  The hooded man shut his eyes again. They flew open with the grinding of the Spokane’s four engines shifting as she pulled next to the dock bumping against the pilings.

  “Whoa, that was quick. We have to hurry. Come on. Follow me. I know a shortcut to the stairs.”

  Hoodie jumped up and followed the passenger down the metal stairs. The stench of exhaust and the vibration of the vessel’s engines filled the space lined with cars, two abreast. The passenger hopped into his white SUV, reached over to open the door, and the hooded man climbed in. They were in the middle of the pack of vehicles and soon left the ferry, the dock, and the terminal behind, the wind and rain gaining intensity.

  Hoodie checked his cell’s display—11:02 p.m.

  “My name’s Hawk by the way. Hansville’s just down the road.”

  “I’m John. I appreciate the lift.”

  “Rain’s heavier on this side of the sound. Won’t be long and those headlights behind us will peel off. Not many go into Hansville at this time of night.”

  John slid his hood off revealing a mop of wavy brown hair, a ponytail in back. He scrunched down in the seat but kept his eyes straight ahead on the rain-slicked road. The night was pitch black. Ancient pines disappeared into the clouds, separated now and then by open fields. Hawk’s occasional words, interrupted by the swish of the windshield wipers, required nothing more than a grunt in response.

  The SUV crested a hill. On the right a sign welcomed them to Hansville. John could barely make out the settlement on the beach below as rain sluiced across the window.

  “Drop me off at that store down there,” John said.

  “Hey, I can take you. What’s the address?”

  “No, really. I’ll call them. Some strange car pulling in on a night like this would scare them to death.” John pulled out his wallet.

  “Put that away. I was glad to help a fellow traveler.” Hawk pulled onto the gravel parking lot in front of the little general store.

  John hopped out pulling up his hood. “Thanks again for the ride.”

  Waiting for the SUV’s taillights to fade away, John started walking. There was only one road. He chose to continue north. The rain persisted, gusts of wind buffeting him from time to time—no lightning, no thunder. He kept to the side of the road, passing a few houses and mailboxes but mostly dense foliage on either side—no sidewalk.

  He figured he’d covered about a mile when he saw a narrow side road off to his right leading down to the water. Lights of a couple of houses were visible tucked in amongst the trees. One of the houses, cheery lights in the window, beckoned him.

  “Yes, this could work,” he mumbled.

  John strode down the long driveway fringed on either side with Christmas-tree pines. His hoodie was now soaked, water running down his face. At the end of the asphalt drive he trotted down a few steps to the garden and up to the door. It wasn’t a front door, but a door into a patio enclosed on two sides with floor-to-ceiling windows. There was no doorbell.

  The patio door wasn’t locked so he opened it and stepped inside. Two tables bordering the windows on the right were cluttered with pots filled with plants in various stages of growth and numerous hand tools. A bag of potting soil was propped up against a table leg.

  A few steps and he was at the front door, a smudged white button to the right. He pushed the button trigging a chime on the other side. A light snapped on flooding the patio at the same time the door swung open, revealing a large old man, tufts of white hair circling his head, wearing red suspenders, chino work pants and shirt. His inquisitive blue eyes peered out over a pipe clenched in his teeth.

  “What’s a young fella like you doing out on a night like this?” he asked.

  “I’m lost. I was trying to find my friends, the Stanleys. Do you know where they live?”

  “Can’t say as I do. Come on in. Do you have an address?” The old man held the door open and John entered the house. His eyes darted around taking in the mahogany furniture as he followed the old man to the kitchen.

  “No, I don’t. They said it would be easy to find, just take the Hansville road. Supposedly a red house on the right, but with this rain I was lucky if I saw any house.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll take a look in the phone book. Why don’t you take off that wet jacket? I was about to fix a cup of tea. How does that sound to you? What’s your name, son?”

  “John. Tea sounds great, Mr., Mr.?”

  “Clay. I’ll put on the water and then we’ll get to that phone book.” John wandered through a door into the living room. “This sure is a nice spot you have here. I bet the view is nice.”

  A bank of picture windows spanned the east-side of the living room facing the sound. John saw, through his reflection in the black glass, the runnin
g lights of a boat in the middle of the water braving the wind-whipped waves. He walked to the fireplace, stopped and studied the brass urn on the mantel. The urn, about nine inches tall, was covered with an intricate gold pattern over a black surface—regal, Roman or Greek.

  Clay, having settled in for the night in his worn slippers, padded into the living room thumbing through the phone book. He saw John gazing at the urn. “That’s my missus. She left me last year and I just haven’t been able to part with her … maybe a few more months. We bought a plot for the two of us, but, well …”

  “I’m sorry to hear that ... your wife.”

  “Stanley you say?”

  “Yes. Find it?”

  “Maybe so. There’s a Stanley just before our little store.” Clay fished a white envelope out of the wastebasket. “I’ll write the address and phone number … you can call them. Oops, there goes the kettle. I’ll be right back.” Clay handed the envelope to John and shuffled back to the kitchen.

  Putting the envelope aside, John pulled a key out of his deep, front trouser pocket. Checking that the old man was still in the kitchen, he quickly lifted the urn, unscrewed the lid, and dropped the key inside. He replaced the lid, jiggled the urn a couple of times and carefully set it back on the mantel just as he heard a woman’s voice.

  “Hi, Gramps, I’m home,” she called out.

  “Here, in the kitchen, Gilly,” Clay replied turning the burner off under the boiling water. “We have a visitor.”

  “What? Who?” She asked throwing her wet rain slicker on the washing machine.

  A young woman with an abundance of curly red hair greeted Clay with a hug and a peck on the cheek, and followed his nod to the living room.

  “Gramps, what are you doing letting strangers in the house, and at this hour?” she whispered quickly glancing from her grandfather to the man and back.