Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “They’re great. A handful, but great. Good to get away from them and regain our sanity every so often.”

  “Got a trip planned?” I asked, proud of my sly way of verifying AmyJo’s babysitting alibi. Even if it was weird that she’d been cleaning Melinda’s house, if she had an alibi, then that was all it was—weird. Not criminal. Not nefarious. Just weird. And I could live with weird.

  “We took one last weekend at the Broadmoor. Heavenly. Thank goodness AmyJo likes to stay with the kids. She even took them to school Monday morning.”

  I grinned. Alibi confirmed.

  After some more chitchat and an estimate for cleaning an apartment my size, we said goodbye. Still unclear about one thing, I called AmyJo.

  “Hey, why did you want to clean Melinda’s house so bad?”

  After a few beats she said, “Because I wanted to find something to give me an edge, maybe a boost of confidence when I submitted my manuscript to her. It was stupid, but I wanted her to have a house decorated in pink lace with puppies and kittens frolicking. Something to prove she wasn’t as horrible as everyone said.”

  I thought about Q saying Melinda made people do stupid things. “Sometimes, AmyJo, things are exactly as they appear.” Tears surprised me by welling behind my eyelids. I suddenly felt a sense of relief I hadn’t felt in days. “The good news is, DebbieJo verified your alibi.”

  “You called my sister? To verify my alibi?”

  Uh oh. “I’m checking everyone. You’re the second one I’ve crossed off. You can’t imagine how this feels. Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad. It’s just weird, having my best friend think I killed somebody.”

  “Not any more weird than thinking all your friends might have killed somebody.”

  “I guess,” she said. “Who’d you cross off first?”

  “The mechanic who serviced Melinda’s car. I didn’t get any kind of creepy vibe from him or his boss. The guy was sweet and barely speaks English. I doubt he reads it either. And even if he did, any motive would be a stretch. Plus, a murder this involved is clearly personal and it would have been random for him to find my manuscript and then go to all this trouble.”

  “So, you’re investigating this?”

  “I guess I am. I realized if I wanted to get my life back to normal I needed to take some action. I couldn’t just hide under my covers. Plus, it was my manuscript. I feel more than a little responsible.”

  “Charlee, you’re not—”

  “I know. But I feeeel responsible. Like it wouldn’t have happened except for me.”

  “Well, I’ve been working on a theory. Wanna hear it?”

  “Desperately.”

  “You know how we always joke about Einstein’s IQ being higher than his EQ? I think Mr. Thaddeus Eichhorn II has finally fallen off the deep end, lashed out, gone kookoobananas.”

  Two words in that sentence caught my attention—“kookoobananas,” because it was the perfect AmyJo-ism, and “Thaddeus,” because I always forgot that was Einstein’s real name.

  The first time I saw Einstein’s real name written out was on one of his book covers. He told me he fought with his publisher about it, but he lost. When I asked him why he didn’t want it revealed, he said the world was better off without another Thaddeus Eichhorn. When I asked where his father was, he simply said, “Dead,” with a grimace like there was a bad taste in his mouth.

  Maybe AmyJo was right.

  “I don’t trust him anymore, Charlee. And remember when I asked him to help me get that job at the University? He told them I was milquetoast and that I liked little kids.”

  “I still don’t even understand why you asked him for that reference. And you know he meant milk toast because it’s homey and comforting. Remember that story he told about his mom making it for him when he was sick?” I knew AmyJo was rolling her eyes because I’d seen her do it every single time we talked about this.

  “But—”

  “And he wasn’t saying you were a pedophile. He was trying to tell them you wrote for kids.”

  “Well, what they heard was that I was a wishy-washy pervert unfit to work there.”

  I bit my tongue, because it was more likely she was unqualified to be an assistant professor.

  “I let it go at the time—”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “—but now it all sounds shady. He probably didn’t want me knowing so much about him. I’m thinking he pretends to be emotionally stunted so he has plausible deniability.”

  I doubt their paths would have crossed much with AmyJo in the English Department and Einstein in Physics, but I told her I’d mull it over.

  “And speaking of plausible deniability, Sheelah and Heinrich both missed the critique group meeting Monday. You should investigate them, too.”

  “And there’s also the love triangle theory,” I said.

  “Which is … ”

  “I thought about it after I talked with Cordelia. She said some things that were kind of weird and it just made me wonder if there was some romantic angle between her, her husband, Melinda, and Melinda’s husband.”

  “Shut the front door!” AmyJo uttered her most objectionable oath.

  I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. “And Henry was weird when I mentioned Cordelia and Byron.”

  “You talked to Melinda’s husband, too? You’ve been a busy little beaver.” AmyJo was quiet for a moment. “Did he have an alibi? You know, the husband is always the prime suspect.”

  “I don’t know about his alibi. I didn’t ask outright, but he said something vague—wait, I have it right here—” I grabbed my notepad. “He said they were having a ‘lovely normal weekend.’”

  “That’s not much of an alibi.”

  “I know, but I wasn’t going to come right out and ask.”

  “Did you ask that mechanic you ruled out?”

  “Yes. He was at his daughter’s quinceañera. His boss was there too. Seemed legit.”

  We were both quiet for a moment until AmyJo asked, “Have the police talked to you again?”

  “No.”

  “That’s probably a good sign. They must know you didn’t kill Melinda. What was it like when they interrogated you? Was it like on TV?”

  “Didn’t they talk to you?”

  “Yeah, but they came to the library and we talked on the mermaid bench in the Storytime Room. Didn’t seem much like an interrogation. We even had cookies. For a little guy, that Detective Ming can put away the Thin Mints.”

  “No cookies for me, but they were very polite. Played Good Cop, Good Cop.” I remembered Sheelah saying my dad must have been one of the good ones and felt my chest tighten. “I’ve been thinking about my dad.”

  “Oh, Charlee, I’m so sorry.”

  “I feel like I’m back in that time of my life. Up seems down, black seems white. Nothing makes sense. It’s like when that asshole told me the whole department was required to attend Dad’s funeral. Required. Like they wouldn’t have gone otherwise.”

  “Between us and the cops, we’ll figure out who killed Melinda,” AmyJo said in a soothing voice.

  “Will we? You said yourself that murders go unsolved all the time. What makes you so certain?”

  “Because you and I are on the case. It’ll be perfect.”

  A slow smile formed on my lips. Everyone needed a friend like AmyJo, positive, perky and persistent.

  “But who’ll be Good Cop and who’ll be Bad Cop?” she quipped.

  “You’re from Iowa. Guarantees you’ll always be Good Cop.”

  I officially crossed AmyJo’s name off my suspect list.

  Eleven

  Yesterday’s grilled cheese wasn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped, so I used up the last of the bread and cheese in another attempt. Today’s was equally photogenic and melty, but again, it wasn’t rewarding. I could only conclude it was me, not it. Not ready to break up, though. I was leaning against the kitchen sink when a knock on my door interrupted my last discouragin
g bite. I tensed, then relaxed when a voice called out “Flowers!” and then tensed again when I suspected a ploy. Oldest trick in the book. I tiptoed to the peephole. Eighty-something Barb Singer from upstairs held a vase filled with Crazy Daisies in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other.

  I opened the door. Looking past Barb’s nest of gray-blue curls, I spotted Detectives Campbell and Ming knocking at Suzanne’s door.

  I hastily ushered Barb inside and slammed the door, but not before Detective Ming scorched me with his gaze while calmly smoothing his slick-backed hair.

  “Hi, Barb. Are you okay? Those guys out there startled me.”

  “Hello, dear. Yes, of course, I’m fine. I’m not made out of Waterford crystal, you know.” She handed me the flowers. “These came upstairs by mistake.”

  “Thanks for bringing them down.”

  “And you have a couple of newspapers out there but my hands were full.”

  “I’ll get them later.”

  “And I made too many cookies again. Chocolate oatmeal.” She carried them to the kitchen table.

  “Yum. Thanks, Barb.” I chuckled, immensely happy to have a retiree living right above me who loved to bake. “You should adjust your recipes. You always seem to make way more than you need.”

  “You know what they say about an old dog and new tricks.”

  “If you were old, I might agree with you.” I placed the flowers on the coffee table and pulled out the card, recognizing Ozzi’s handwriting immediately. Cops asked me about you. I told them you were perfect.

  “From your beau?”

  I nodded. “Ozzi.” I loved that he was trying to apologize, but I still wasn’t ready. I fluffed the flowers, filling the empty spaces with the wild, unnaturally-colored daisies. I wondered what the detectives asked Oz and what he answered, but I was too proud—and scared—to ask.

  I motioned to the couch. “Sit down and I’ll get us some coffee.”

  “Aren’t you going to call him?” Barb asked, shrugging out of her coat.

  I didn’t know exactly what face I made, but she said, “Ah, apology flowers. You get that coffee and we’ll have a nice little chat.”

  In the kitchen I texted a simple Thanks for the flowers. They’re pretty.

  And got a simple, You’re welcome. I’m still sorry. Call me in reply.

  I carried two mugs into the living room and sat next to Barb on the couch.

  “You shouldn’t let a little tiff with your beau make you lose your head.” She sipped her coffee, then licked her lips and tipped her head ever-so-slightly toward the platter of cookies.

  I jumped up, removed the plastic wrap, and held the platter out to her. She took one and balanced it on her knee. “Thank you, dear. Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Let me get you a plate for that.”

  “Don’t be daft. Why dirty up extra dishes?”

  I loved her.

  I set the platter on the coffee table in front of her and reached for one but saw walnuts jutting out so I withdrew my hand, trying to act nonchalant. I’d told Barb a couple of times, years ago, that walnuts made my throat itch so I avoided them. She didn’t always remember, but I never reminded her. It wasn’t her job to remember my allergies, and I refused to hurt her feelings.

  She made a tsk-tsk sound. “You girls and your diets.”

  I didn’t want her to regret her efforts, so I said, “No, it’s not that. I just ate. I’ll have these later.”

  She tilted her head and stared at me while chewing a bite of cookie, clearly assessing my truthfulness. Apparently I failed her test because she said, “You can’t let an argument with your beau put you in a tizzy, Charlemagne.”

  “Do you and Don ever fight?”

  An enormous gale of laughter erupted out of her tiny body, which led to an alarming fit of coughing. She took a sip of coffee to quell it. “Oh my. Of course we have arguments. But after sixty-three years of marriage, there’s not much we haven’t already resolved. Now we just bicker over what to watch on TV. I love those cooking shows but he loves the History Channel.” She sipped again. “He’s lived through most everything they broadcast. It’s hardly history to him. And he complains that I watch all those recipes being made but all I ever make are the same old things.” She chewed a bite of cookie, then leaned toward me. “Everything but chicken soup gives him gas. Why would I want to branch out?”

  I laughed. “Why, indeed.” I sipped my coffee while she finished her cookie and reached for another. “Sixty-three years. That’s amazing.”

  “You reach a point where even though the romance is gone—have I mentioned the gas?—there’s such a deep tapestry of your life together that the threads simply can’t be pulled apart. Even if you wanted to.” She nibbled her cookie.

  “A tapestry. What a lovely image. I’ll have to steal that.”

  “Even though you and your beau haven’t been together as long as we have, you already have a tapestry.”

  Nodding slowly, I said, “I suppose we do.” I thought about my parents and my fight with Ozzi about the murder. “But some threads get ripped.”

  “Rips can be mended, dear. If you want them to be.”

  Are all old people so wise and comforting? “I’m sure glad you live right upstairs, Barb. You’re like my surrogate grandmother.”

  “Where are your grandparents, dear? Do they live nearby?”

  “My mom’s parents died before I was born, and my dad’s parents quit coming around after he died. Whether from too much grief or not enough love I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. The effect was the same.”

  “Oh, Charlee. I didn’t realize your father died. How awful.”

  Barb’s face was so full of concern it made me feel bad. I felt like a little black storm cloud, raining on everyone I came in contact with lately. I smiled and said brightly, “It was a long time ago. Water under the bridge.” I finished my coffee and stood.

  I could tell she didn’t believe me, but she took my hint and stood too.

  “I’ve bothered you enough today, dear. Now I must get back upstairs.” I helped her with her coat and she said over her shoulder, “Now go call that handsome beau of yours.”

  “I already texted him.”

  “Texted. Pfft. That’s no way to get lucky.”

  “Barb!” I felt a tingle creep across my face and my ears got impossibly hot.

  She let out another full-bodied guffaw and let herself out of the apartment.

  I was still blushing as I used a fingernail to jimmy the walnuts from an otherwise perfect cookie. A hopeless task with such small pieces. Damn those cooking shows teaching her mad knife skills. I slid the platter across the kitchen counter and tried to ignore its mockery.

  As I carried our cups to the sink, I heard a familiar rustling from the juniper bushes under my kitchen window. Barb must have let their dog, Peter, out when she got upstairs. I quickly shoved my feet in snow boots, grabbed a jacket, and headed outside, stepping past the orange plastic bags filled with two editions of the Denver Post I’d neglected to bring inside.

  The sidewalk had been cleared of snow so I followed it to the edge of my building, where there was a grassy area between my building and the next. There were several shrubs, but Peter’s favorites were the two juniper bushes under my kitchen window. I watched them thrash back and forth.

  “Peter, come here,” I called, squatting down.

  The rustling stopped and the junipers became still.

  Don Singer called out from his balcony above my patio. “Everything okay down there?”

  I looked up and nodded at him before turning back to the bushes. “Peter. Now.” I used my alpha dog voice, hoping he knew I meant business. And that I might be alpha dog.

  The wrinkled, shoved-in face of an irresistibly perky pug poked out from the junipers. When he saw me, he raced toward me, slowing only to wiggle through his favorite gap in the filigree of the wrought-iron fencing by the sidewalk. The bunny he’d cornered shot out the opposite direction.

>   Peter O’Drool was the full name of Don and Barb Singer’s dog. He was as charming as he was odd. Like a Polaroid of your grandma hanging in the Louvre.

  As was his habit, he’d come down to potty, but instead of trotting back upstairs when he was done, today he’d become sidetracked by a rabbit. Also as kind of a habit, I’d started retrieving him for Don and Barb because at their age it was increasingly difficult for them to step over the knee-high decorative fencing to get close to the junipers to coerce him to come home, especially in bad weather. Plus, their alpha dog voices oozed with unconditional love. I hoped Peter sensed my love was completely conditional. It wasn’t, of course, but he didn’t need to know that.

  With the snow on the ground, I was glad I didn’t have to step over the fence either. With my luck, I’d slip and have to deal with cold, wet snow on my butt as well as cold, wet nose on my face.

  When Peter squirted through the fencing, I braced myself before he could bowl me over with his frantic, quivering love. “Dude. Relax.” His tail curled over his hind end and he wagged them both so hard I thought they might fly off. When he calmed the teensiest bit, I scooped him up. “Should I bring him up? Did he do his business?” I lifted him toward Don, who was waiting on his balcony.

  “Yep. Prodigious amounts, too. Makes me jealous.”

  I laughed and carried Peter up the outdoor stairway, to be met at their door by Barb holding a loaf of something wrapped in plastic.

  “Banana bread,” she said, handing it to me. “I forgot to bring it down before. But I didn’t forget to add lots of walnuts, just how you like it.”

  “You don’t have to give me so many treats, Barb. I’m always happy to see Peter.” I set him down and he orbited me three times before racing into the apartment.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” Barb pointed at my fleece jacket covered in snow, dog hair, and drool.

  “No worries,” I said. I stuck my head around her and called, “Bye, Don. Bye, Peter.”

  Using cold hands, I picked up the newspapers at my door. Back in my warm apartment, I studied the loaf of banana bread. Yep, full of walnuts. I set it next to the cookies on the countertop and sighed.