Killer Words

by V. M. Burns

  “Actually, I think it was Oreo who tried to rip your pants clean off your body.” I laughed. “You were hungry and scared and . . .” I got choked up remembering the bruises and scars on his body that his father had given him.

  “So, you fed me, patched me up, gave me a place to stay, and tutored me so I could stay in school. And, when the police thought I’d murdered my ex-girlfriend, you protected me, got Mrs. Rutherford to represent me, and tracked down the real killer. I owe you so much.” He looked at me and Nana Jo. “All of you.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Nan Jo said. “That’s what families do.” I could tell by the husky tone in her voice that she was feeling emotional.

  “Nana Jo’s right. That’s what families do. They look out for each other, and you’re part of our family.” I reached over and squeezed his arm. “Now, before I ruin what’s left of my makeup, what were you thinking you’d like to do with your trust?”

  “I want to set up some type of scholarship. Maybe there’s a kid who needs to get out of a bad situation.... I want to use this money to help. Do you think Mrs. Rutherford could help me set up something like that?”

  “I’m sure she can. We’ll ask first thing tomorrow, but are you sure you don’t want to buy a new car?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, I have my old beater. That’s good enough for running from here to the college. If I’m fortunate enough to get drafted, then hopefully I can earn the money to buy a car. But . . . I know that I can’t play ball forever. Lots of football players get hurt. One day, when I can’t play ball anymore, I’d like to go to cooking school. I’d like to make the flakiest crusts in North America.” He grinned.

  I took an apple tartlet from the plate and ate it. The crust was flaky and buttery and everything a crust should be. The apples, cinnamon, and spices were perfectly balanced and gave me a warm feeling inside. “I think your crusts are pretty darned good right now. Although I do think there’s something. . .”

  He glanced at me expectantly, with a slight look of disappointment in his eyes.

  I snapped my fingers. “Ice cream.”

  “I think I can fix that.” He grinned, stood up, and headed for the freezer.

  Just as we sat down to eat, my phone rang. I glanced at the face on the screen and smiled. “It’s Lexi and Angelo.”

  Lexi and Angelo Gelano were two orphans we’d met a few months ago when they ran away from an abusive foster home in Chicago. They’d made it as far as North Harbor when Frank found them asleep in the back of his restaurant. Frank Patterson’s connections with the government were able to track down their relatives in Italy who had been searching for the children ever since they’d received word of their parents’ deaths.

  I grinned and waved frantically at the screen. “Buongiorno.”

  Angelo giggled. “It’s afternoon, not morning, silly. You mean buon pomeriggio, not buongiorno.” Angelo was a vivacious four-year-old with blond curly hair.

  His older sister, Lexi, gave him a shove. “Angelo, you’re the one being silly.” She was twelve going on twenty-five and had long dark hair. Both were nicely tanned and looked happy.

  Dawson and Nana Jo crowded around my phone, and we all spent five minutes talking, laughing, and getting caught up. Lexi and Angelo had moved to Italy to stay with their grandparents, and they both looked happy. They were surrounded by family who loved them and I was glad, but I still missed them. I was thankful they were allowed to call us on Sundays so we could stay in touch.

  Five minutes went by way too fast. Before I knew it, our time was up and we were saying our good-byes. Once their faces were gone, I felt sad. Dawson, Nana Jo, and I talked for a while longer, and then Dawson said he had better get started on his homework. Nana Jo said she was going to finish a thriller, Without Sanction by Don Bentley. I went to my bedroom and decided to spend a little time in the English countryside.

  Lady Clara walked out onto the balcony and stood for a moment staring at the tall, thin figure of Detective Peter Covington of the Metropolitan Police force, better known as Scotland Yard. He must have felt her eyes on him because he turned.

  “I was just getting some fresh air.”

  She moved next to him. “I’m sorry for dragging you here. I knew it would be horrible, but when Kick asked . . . I just couldn’t say no.”

  Detective Covington shook his head. “I just can’t stand all that defeatist talk. England won the Great War, and as far as I’m concerned, we’re still the greatest nation on the sea or in the air, but to listen to those . . . those . . . politicians, England might as well roll over and hand Hitler the keys to Buckingham Palace without even trying.”

  She rubbed his arm. “I know.”

  “You’d think the ambassador and Lady Astor would want to fight. I mean, they’re Americans. I thought they were supposed to be about independence and freedom, but to listen to them talk, England doesn’t stand a chance.” He paced across the small balcony. “And Ribbentrop is so arrogant. Did you hear him talking about how superior their Aryan soldiers are? Well, I for one don’t intend to let England go down without a fight. I intend to—”

  Lady Clara gasped.

  He stopped pacing and stared at her. “Darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spring it on you like this.” He pulled her into his arms.

  “I knew. I knew as soon as the Military Training Act passed Parliament that you would sign up for your six months of military training. I just hoped we’d have more time.”

  “You’re shivering.” He took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Perhaps we should go back—”

  “I’m not cold. I’m just . . . afraid. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened. If you—”

  The detective clasped Clara in his arms and kissed her. He pulled away and gazed into her eyes.

  He was just about to speak when someone stepped outside.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Marguerite turned to head back inside.

  “No, please. We were just . . . getting a breath of air.”

  Marguerite Evans was a strong, sturdy farm girl with soft brown eyes and thick red hair. “I believe the men are looking for you. They said something about port and wanting to play billiards.”

  Clara handed him his jacket. “You’d better go. We’ll be in shortly.”

  His eyes spoke volumes before he turned, nodded to Marguerite, and went inside.

  Lady Clara took several steps forward to go inside, but she was stopped when Marguerite grabbed her arm.

  “Clara, I need to talk to you.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry about all of this.” She waved at the house. “It’s just that Kick sounded so desperate, and she needed young people or her father wouldn’t let her come.”

  Marguerite shook her head. “That’s all right. I don’t mind. In fact, if it weren’t for those . . .”

  Lady Clara smiled. “Politicians.”

  “If that’s a sampling of the type of people running the country, then it’s a wonder the British Empire has survived as long as it has.” She crossed her arms and paced.

  Lady Clara noted how similar her friend was to Peter, who had paced and said virtually the same things just moments ago.

  Marguerite ranted for several minutes. Once her wrath was abated, she turned to her friend. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so worked up, but hearing all of that hogwash just makes my blood boil.”

  “It’s perfectly understandable.” She gave her friend a shy glance. “Although I’d hoped that maybe something . . . or someone else might make your blood boil.”

  Marguerite laughed. “Your detective’s friend, Ollie, is nice.”

  “Nice? Puppies are nice. I think he looks like Errol Flynn.”

  “He’s certainly handsome, but I don’t have time for romance . . . not right now, anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Marguerite glanced around to make sure no one was watching; then she pulled her friend close. “I shouldn’t be tell
ing you this, but I have to tell someone.” Marguerite’s normally jovial face was serious.

  “Tell me what?”

  “First, you have to promise not to tell anyone.” She gave her friend a hard stare.

  “I promise.”

  Marguerite took a moment and then made up her mind. “You know, I’ve always been really good at languages.”

  Lady Clara nodded. “Top of our class.”

  “I’ve been recruited to help with some important, top-secret things. I don’t know all of the details, but I’m going to be working for the government.”

  “What are you going to be doing? I mean, there isn’t a war.”

  “Not yet, but when it comes, and it will, England needs to be ready, and I’m going to help.”

  “How?”

  “Mostly translating documents, but it could involve more dangerous work if things don’t go well. I was contacted by some people from a secret agency, and they interviewed me and several other girls. They said we could help our nation, but it could be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? How?”

  “I couldn’t tell you all of the details, even if I knew them. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. In fact, I shouldn’t be telling you anything. I can’t even tell my parents, and . . . if I ended up leaving England, no one would know. I just couldn’t go away without anyone knowing. I can take whatever they did to me . . . at least, I hope that my courage will hold up. However, there’s just something about the thought of dying in a foreign country and no one knowing where I was that I couldn’t take. I lie awake at night thinking about it until I feel like I’m going mad. That’s when I realized I had to tell someone. I needed someone who knows me to know. That’s when I thought of you.” She stared at Clara. “You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Marguerite released a breath, and her shoulders relaxed. “Somehow, I knew you’d understand. I think I can endure anything now.”

  Lady Clara hugged her friend. She felt the tears sting the backs of her eyes and tried to swallow the lump that rose in her throat. She blinked away the tears and forced down the lump that threatened to choke her, but no amount of blinking or swallowing could erase the feeling of doom and the dark cloud that settled over her.

  Chapter 6

  Monday morning, I woke up feeling energetic despite my late-night writing. Once I had showered and dressed, I took Snickers and Oreo downstairs. I had a missed message from Frank and smiled as I opened it. He was letting me know he made my favorite soup and would have it waiting for me.

  Frank owned a café down the street from my bookstore. He was an excellent cook and I loved eating, so we were a perfect match.

  When the poodles were finished, we went back upstairs.

  Nana Jo was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee and reading the River Bend Tribune. North Harbor was so small that the local newspaper, the North Harbor Herald, only came out on weekends. Anyone wanting the news on weekdays bought papers from River Bend, Kalamazoo, or Chicago. River Bend capitalized on this by including a section called “Michiana News,” which included news from North and South Harbor.

  “You seem engrossed,” I said.

  “They have an article about the spectacle at The Avenue.” She pointed to the article, and I read over her shoulder.

  “Poor Stinky Pitt.”

  She gave me a look that said, You must be joking. “Poor Stinky Pitt my . . . big toe.”

  The article stated the facts and the facts didn’t show any of the public officials in the best light, but Stinky Pitt looked exceptionally bad, especially in the picture of him standing over John Cloverton.

  “That picture reminds me of Muhammad Ali standing over an opponent he’d just knocked out.” Nana Jo took her cup to the sink and stretched. “Don’t forget our class starts tonight.”

  I must have looked as confused as I felt, because she added, “Don’t tell me you forgot already?”

  Still, no bells rang. I sipped my coffee hoping the caffeine would ignite my memory, but I must not have been fully caffeinated, because nothing came.

  “Social Media for the Novice.”

  Clang. Clang. Clang. The bells sounded in my head. I tried to play off my memory lapse. “I didn’t forget.”

  “Sure, you didn’t forget, and pigs can fly.”

  “I remembered I signed up for the class; I just didn’t know it was tonight.”

  “Well, it starts at six thirty. It’s a good thing I thought to ask Dawson to cover so we could go.”

  “Thank you.”

  We went downstairs and got things ready. The business was steady, and we stayed busy until noon, when Nana Jo told me she was hungry enough to start gnawing on her arm. That’s when I left to go to North Harbor Café to pick up lunch.

  I walked down the street with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Monday is the busiest day at North Harbor Café and I know Frank needs to focus on his business, so I try not to bother him . . . well, not much.

  Today was no exception. The restaurant was as crowded as ever. Every table was filled, and a large crowd stood near the hostess station waiting for seats. As usual, Frank was behind the bar filling drink orders.

  I pushed my way through the crowd.

  The hostess looked up, recognized me, and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Washington.” She glanced at the bar. “I’m afraid there aren’t any seats, but if you want to go over, I’ll find one from the back—”

  I waved her away. “Thanks, Mary, but I won’t be long. Please don’t bother. I don’t mind standing.” I walked over to the edge of the bar.

  Frank was at the other end, but when he saw me he smiled. Frank Patterson was in his forties. He cut his salt-and-pepper hair in a way that screamed former military. He had soft brown eyes and a lovely smile.

  I leaned against the edge of the bar. I didn’t have long to wait. Frank came down, stopping long enough to take a pitcher of lemon water from the freezer and getting a glass. He poured my glass and set it in front of me before he leaned close. “Hello, beautiful.”

  I could feel the heat rise up my neck and grinned. “Hello, handsome.”

  He glanced around as though unsure who I was referring to but then leaned across and gave me a quick kiss.

  I took a deep breath and inhaled. Frank always smelled of an herbal Irish soap, red wine, coffee, and bacon.

  He chuckled. “You only love me because I smell like bacon.”

  “Not true. I also love you because you make the best corn chowder soup I’ve ever eaten.”

  He smiled. “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  Before he left, I ordered a sandwich for Nana Jo, and he hurried to the back.

  I didn’t have long to wait before he returned with a box of food.

  Normally, we would spend a few minutes flirting, but he was busy, so we made our good-byes short.

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t. I signed up for a class on social media. How about tomorrow?”

  “I suppose I can wait one more day, although . . . there is a charge for canceling reservations at the last minute.”

  “Add it to my tab.” I gave him one last smile before I left.

  Nana Jo and I took turns eating lunch, and the rest of the afternoon went by quickly. Dawson got back around five. He brought his girlfriend, Jillian Clark, and her roommate, Emma Lee. Both were students at MISU, and Emma and my nephew Zaq had become quite the item.

  “Hi, Mrs. Washington.” The girls dropped their bookbags on the counter and immediately started helping check out customers.

  At five feet tall and barely one hundred pounds, Emma Lee had long dark hair that she wore pulled back into a ponytail. She had dark, almond-shaped eyes and a southern drawl that made you smile.

  My eyes expressed the question that I didn’t want to voice.

  She read my look perfectly. “Nothing yet, and the waiting is driving me to eat. I’ve gained five pounds in two months. I’ve been stress e
ating like a sumo wrestler.”

  Jillian and I exchanged looks that Emma intercepted.

  “Don’t start on how you can’t see the weight gain, because I can definitely feel the extra pounds when I try to zip my pants. Just because I’m not five hundred pounds doesn’t mean my struggle isn’t real.” She took a bite of a sugar cookie.

  “Your MCAT scores were amazing,” I said, trying to reassure her.

  Jillian folded her arms over her chest. “Plus, you’ve gotten acceptance letters from five different medical schools, any one of which most students would sell a kidney to get admitted to.”

  Emma blushed. “I know, but I really, really want to go to Columbia or Northwestern. Those are my first choices. They have amazing pediatrics programs, and . . . I just really want to get accepted.”

  Jillian hugged her friend. “I know you do, and I’m confident that you will get accepted. They’d be fools not to accept you.”

  The two friends pulled apart. I glanced around to make sure Dawson wasn’t within earshot before I asked Jillian, “What about you?”

  Jillian’s eyes got bigger. “I’m so nervous. My audition is Wednesday, and every time I think about it, I get a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and want to throw up.”

  Both Emma and Jillian were extremely talented. Emma was a straight-A student and destined to be a leader in the medical profession. Jillian was an amazing singer, dancer, and actress. She was preparing for an audition with the Bolshoi Ballet Academy’s summer program. It was highly competitive. She was a star at MISU, but she’d have to compete against dancers from all over the country. If she was accepted, she’d spend six weeks in New York City getting trained by teachers from the prestigious Bolshoi academy. There was also a chance at earning a scholarship for further training in Moscow.

  “I have nightmares about it and wake up in a sweat. They’re going to think I’m too old.”