Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “I don’t know what to think, Ames.”

  “Me neither. But why would he keep it a secret that they were both there?”

  “Maybe he really didn’t know. Maybe these fancy events are huge and you don’t get the chance to mingle. Maybe you just waltz in, drop off your enormous donation, eat a crab puff, then get your picture taken. Bing-bang-boom. He said he didn’t know her husband, so maybe he really doesn’t know her either.”

  “Maybe.” AmyJo waved her fingers at Tuttle. “But wasn’t he flying back from Chicago that night?”

  As I relayed Kell’s opaque explanation, Tuttle picked his way through the crowd with a coffeepot and an empty cup, which he set down in front of AmyJo.

  “Hey, darlin’.” He pecked her cheek, then filled our cups. “Can’t chat. These folks need caffeine like a buzzard needs roadkill.”

  “Eww,” she said as he moved away, glad-handing and refilling mugs. She took a sip and made happy noises.

  I leaned on the table, chin in my palm. “I’ll check into Kell’s alibi of being on that red-eye. If he can lie about the fundraiser, he could certainly lie about that.”

  “Who else besides Kell is still on your list?”

  “Einstein, Heinrich, Henry, Melinda—” When AmyJo looked at me askance, I added, “Melinda was on antidepressants. Far-fetched, but maybe she killed herself.”

  “Very far-fetched. And Henry?”

  “Husbands are prime suspects. Didn’t you tell me that? Maybe he was having an affair.”

  “Maybe.” She blew across the top of her cup. “And Einstein and Heinrich?”

  “I don’t know. They’re avoiding me. When I was on campus the other night, I swear Einstein looked me right in the eye, then raced away in the opposite direction. And, get this, Jenica told me Heinrich knows my brother because of some police problem at the high school a few years back.” I stuck my face in my cup to avoid saying anything more about Lance.

  “That’s it!” AmyJo spoke loudly enough that people turned to stare. Quieter, she added, “Heinrich is framing you to get revenge on Lance.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. “I have the feeling that Lance already got in some kind of trouble over it. Jenica said there was a hearing Heinrich testified at.”

  “What does Lance say about it?”

  I chose my words carefully so nothing could slip and hurt Lance. “Never asked him. The fact that he’s never mentioned it must mean he doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m sure it was nothing. They let him keep being a cop, after all.”

  “I guess.”

  AmyJo sipped her coffee while I played with the crumbs on my plate. Finally, she pushed her cup away and proclaimed, “Nobody in our critique group could have killed Melinda.” She brushed her hands together as if that were the final dispensation of the case.

  “There is one more suspect.” I told her about what Suzanne had been up to, ending with, “I’m eighty-five percent sure she’s innocent, but I need to be a hundred percent. What are you doing late tonight?”

  AmyJo clapped her hands. “Going undercover?”

  “Wanna come over now and make a surveillance plan?” I lowered my voice. “Theoretically, tonight’s the night Suzanne breaks into this place. We can see if she goes all cat burglar in here. I can bribe you with cookies and banana bread.” Nope, I’d given both of those to Suzanne. “Correction. I can bribe you with smushed brownies.”

  “You sure know how to sweet-talk guests. I’ll pull the truck around front.” It wasn’t until she’d gathered her coat, scarf, and gloves in her arms that AmyJo saw the stray dog on the floor. “Friend of yours?”

  “Nah, just met her earlier. Thought we’d share a snack.”

  AmyJo picked her way through the tables, holding her bundle of winter wear over her head. The end of the scarf came loose and brushed across the heads of everyone she passed.

  I cleared our table but left the newspaper in a neat pile for someone else to peruse. On second thought, I dug through the pile to keep the sections with the articles about myself and the zoo fundraiser, then straightened the pile again.

  Lavar and Tuttle were busy with customers, so I decided not to say goodbye. The place was packed now, all the tables full both on the café side and the bookstore side, plus people perched on the ledge in front of the window. I planned my route: try to slide by a table of six people clustered around a table for four, or backtrack past a couple with a toddler in a highchair?

  I chose the highchair, but hadn’t seen the enormous diaper bag on the floor. While the dad worked at shoving it under the table with his foot, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  A voice whispered in my ear, “I’ve got a gun.”

  Without thinking, I jammed the highchair forward toward the dad and scrambled behind it, pushing chairs, people, and tables out of my way until I reached the counter. I forced my way in front of the customer who was ordering.

  “Charlee! What the hell?” Tuttle said.

  “He’s got a gun!” I whispered. I pointed at a man holding my newspaper.

  Before Tuttle could react, the man called over the din. “Are you done? Can I have your newspaper?”

  Relief and humiliation flooded my core. I nodded weakly and gave an apologetic smile to the couple trying to comfort their now-screaming toddler. Hanging my head so my hair covered my face, I slipped away from the counter and hurried toward the door before I misunderstood anyone else.

  Glancing at the dog on my way out, I was a bit hurt she hadn’t even woken up. Some watchdog.

  Twenty-Two

  As I expected, AmyJo took advantage of the non-existent traffic and wild amount of snow, gunning her truck around the block back to my apartment. In the passenger seat, I gripped the strap with my right hand and braced myself with my other hand on the dashboard, hoping I wouldn’t hurt my wrist again. AmyJo gleefully slid around corners and headed toward an area in the far corner of the complex parking lot without any cars, where she could perform a reckless series of doughnuts. I closed my eyes and hoped she’d take pity on me.

  “Woohoo!” She did a little dance with her shoulders. “Isn’t this a hoot?”

  “No. Can we be done yet?” I opened one eye.

  “Spoilsport.” She slammed on the brakes, fishtailed, and slid into a perfectly executed finale, the nose of the truck pointing directly at my apartment building. It was a move that would make any stunt driver bow down in solidarity. Or so she said.

  She coasted closer to the building and pulled into an empty spot between two compact cars. Without crampons, carabiners, or a Sherpa to guide me, I rappelled from the summit of Mount Chevrolet until I’d descended far enough to distinguish the tiny car next to me.

  AmyJo regarded me with bemusement, as she did every time I tried to free-climb out of her truck.

  “I have to go slow or I’ll get the bends,” I explained.

  “I think that’s only when you come up too fast. And in the ocean.” As we approached my building, I saw that the maintenance crew still hadn’t made it this far with their plowing. There were several sets of footprints on the sidewalk and leading up to my door. I held out my arm to block AmyJo, trying to determine if the footprints all belonged to me. I moved my right foot as far away from my body as I could before tamping it into some virgin snow. I compared the print to the ones heading toward my door.

  They weren’t all mine.

  AmyJo started to say something but I put my finger to my lips, then felt for my keys. When I had them, I mouthed the word “Run!” and we raced for my door. I jammed the key into the lock and slammed the door behind us, breathing hard.

  We barely got our coats off before someone knocked. Again, I put my finger to my lips, then tiptoed to the peephole.

  Ozzi. I released a hysterical giggle and so did AmyJo. I opened the door.

  He flashed his dazzling smile, shaming every toothpaste commercial ever created. “Hey, beautiful. Can I come in?”

&
nbsp; I stepped aside and waved him in, afraid to speak for fear I’d embarrass myself in my relief.

  “Hi, AmyJo,” he said.

  AmyJo kept giggling. I rolled my eyes at her, forgetting that she hadn’t been jumping at shadows all week.

  Ozzi carried two big reusable grocery bags into the kitchen. We followed him. He set the bags down, then stepped forward to kiss me. I took a half-step back and he returned to the bags, not appearing to take offense. “I noticed your car hasn’t moved all week and I figured you were running low on supplies,” he said.

  He began opening cabinets and the refrigerator, expertly placing everything in its rightful place. I caught AmyJo’s eye and she caught the hint to leave the kitchen.

  “Actually, I’ve been out a lot,” I said. “And I have an assigned space. Remember?”

  “I know. But I needed something to say, right? Some piece of perfect dialogue?”

  I watched him work while I tried to sort out my feelings for him and our relationship. Yes, he’d rebuffed my booty call and then pretty much accused me of killing Melinda, but I recalled accusing him of the same thing. And his sister. I’d accused lots of people of murder that week, at least in my thoughts. Was that such a bad thing? How else would I figure out what had happened? We’d both said some things we probably shouldn’t have, and man-oh-man, was he trying hard to make up. Calls, texts, flowers, and now a full refrigerator?

  “Thanks for this.”

  He leaned out from behind the refrigerator door. “You’re welcome.” He finished emptying one bag, folded it, and started on the other. “Now for the good stuff.”

  Apparently he knew I needed healthy stuff as well as comfort food because this second bag was brimming with all the things I loved. A half-gallon of ice cream, Fig Newtons, chocolate mini-donuts, a variety pack of crackers with an enormous block of cheese, cinnamon raisin bread, a pound of butter, the protein bars I liked, pancake mix, and real maple syrup.

  And coffee. Glorious, marvelous coffee. How could I stay mad after all that?

  He folded the bag and leaned against the sink. “How are you? Getting any sleep?”

  I leaned on the doorjamb, suddenly self-conscious and shy. “Not really.” My thumbnail became fascinating to me and I studied it. “So, you hacked my computer … ”

  “Did you like that? I worked really hard on it.” I looked up and saw him smiling at me.

  “Oz … how did you … what did you—”

  “If you’re asking if I did anything illegal, I can assure you I did not. And you should be more careful with your passwords.”

  “I’m going to ask you something that might make you mad, but I have to know—”

  “There’s a red X up in the corner of the animation. Just click it away and your desktop comes back.”

  “Yeah, I already figured that out.” I hoped AmyJo wasn’t eavesdropping. “It’s not that. Did you hack into Melinda’s computer? You didn’t actually answer me before, when we were fighting.”

  “No!” He pushed away from the sink and stood straight, fists balled. “Why would I? What for?”

  “To figure out my royalty problem, like I said.”

  He ran a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “Charlee, I would never do anything like that. You’ve gotta know me better than that.”

  “You thought I killed my agent.”

  He slumped against the sink again and looked at the floor. “That was stupid of me. I was so stunned by the news, and then you didn’t call. I didn’t know what to think.” He raised his head and looked me in the eye. “I know you didn’t do it.”

  Just as I was about to rush him for a sorely missed kiss and hug, there was a wild, insistent banging at my door. I jumped. Ozzi must have seen the fear in my eyes because he pushed past me and ran to the peephole. He turned toward me as he opened the door.

  “It’s just Sheelah.”

  She hurried in, taking her gloves off. “Well, thanks, Ozzi. Nice to see you, too.”

  “I just meant—”

  “I know. I’m kidding. I’m here to whisk Charlee to a movie and away from her misery for a while.” She clapped her hands at me. “Hurry up, chop-chop. We only have forty-five minutes if we want to make the next show.”

  I didn’t move.

  “C’mon, it’s that one you’ve been wanting to see.” When I still didn’t move, she said in a sing-song voice, “Ryan Gosling.”

  When AmyJo came out of the bathroom and saw Sheelah standing in my living room, a grimace flashed across her face and then disappeared just as quickly, like it physically hurt her to see Sheelah there. Jealousy is a weird thing. Couldn’t I have two friends? This was too much to deal with.

  “Hi, AmyJo,” Sheelah said. Her grin had morphed to a grimace too.

  AmyJo mumbled a greeting.

  “C’mon, Charlee. Today’s the first day in a week my tooth doesn’t hurt so I want to celebrate.” Sheelah tipped her head toward Ozzi. “I guess you two made up?”

  “We were about to,” I said with exasperation. “AmyJo, why don’t you and Sheelah go to the movies?”

  AmyJo looked like I’d asked her to strip naked and recite the complete works of Shakespeare while performing a tarantella.

  Sheelah said, “Um, well, I … ”

  Ozzi walked over to me and planted a soft kiss on my mouth. Delicious. Then he gently pushed me away. “Go to the movies. Take your mind off things. Go out with your friends, get a good night’s sleep. We’ll have a real date tomorrow night. I’ll make reservations someplace nice. Okay?”

  I looked from him to AmyJo and Sheelah, both looking so hopeful. “Okay,” I finally conceded with a sigh. “But you two need to take me to lunch first.”

  Sheelah flirted shamelessly with the teenage ticket seller and scored us Early Bird pricing, even though after eating lunch and driving to the theater it was almost 3:00, long past the cutoff. Then she waltzed over to the concession area and wrangled us three free popcorns and a box of Junior Mints, my first love. I laughed at her antics and willingly accepted the candy, but when I offered some to AmyJo, she shot me an annoyed smile and turned away.

  I ate all the candy and most of my popcorn but couldn’t concentrate on the film. I checked the time at 4:13 and remembered that Lavar and his con-greee-gation would be sending out their prayer bomb in two minutes. I braced myself against the Spirit of the Lord that would soon be cascading upon me, but only felt popcorn hitting the back of my head. I’ve heard God works in mysterious ways, but I doubted his medium was whole grains. I disentangled a kernel from my hair and glared backward. Another one hit me. Then another.

  AmyJo went full Mama Grizzly and stormed up the aisle to confront three teenage boys sitting next to two girls. Clearly they were not as interested in Ryan Gosling as the rest of the audience. Sheelah and I watched wide-eyed as she slid into their row, facing them. The boys retreated as far as their seatbacks allowed. AmyJo bent at the waist. “If one more piece of popcorn goes anywhere near my friend’s head, or anyone else’s head, or anywhere that’s not your mouth, I will personally come back here and shove every last kernel right up your … noses. Do I make myself clear?”

  In the dark theater, the whites of the boys’ eyes shone so much brighter.

  “Do I?”

  They nodded.

  She sidestepped back to the aisle, with a parting two-fingered I’m keeping my eye on you gesture.

  When she sat down, Sheelah and I gaped at her. AmyJo shrugged. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Thanks.”

  Sheelah leaned forward and nodded her head. “Wow. Impressive.”

  Even though sitting on the barely upholstered seat was killing my tailbone, I turned my attention back to the screen, remembering too late about the group prayer. Nobody wanted to bless me, I figured. The movie had been a complete bust, too. While the rest of the audience sat transfixed by cinematic storytelling, I’d run through my list of remaining suspects in a continuous loop in my head, still coming up
with no answers.

  After the movie, Sheelah dropped us back at my apartment and AmyJo promised to be back later for our surveillance on Suzanne. I went inside, made some of the glorious coffee Ozzi brought, and opened the Fig Newtons. I texted him. Come over?

  He replied immediately. Made plans with my mom. Afterward?

  Probably for the best. I was sure to blurt out something I shouldn’t about what was going on with Lance. Plus, I didn’t want to explain my plans for Suzanne. I knew he wouldn’t approve.

  That’s okay. You were right. I should get some sleep tonight. See you tomorrow. oxox.

  I texted him again. Quick question. Is it crazy hard to change timestamps on the posts on a message board?

  Almost impossible. Why?

  Triple checking Q’s alibi. Thanks. Say hi to your mom for me.

  Will do. oxox

  I munched the soft, sticky cookies while reading my Yellow Tablet of Suspicion, even though I already knew exactly what it said. For one thing, complete blanks for both Einstein and Heinrich. I reached for my phone and dialed Heinrich. I must have tried calling him fifteen times over the last week. Maybe this time was the charm. I called his landline instead of his cell so he couldn’t dodge my call unless he had Caller ID. While I waited for him to answer, I pictured him sitting in an easy chair chomping on a cigar.

  Glancing over at the postcard of the two stylized couples I’d picked up at the art museum on Thursday, I realized that Heinrich was the reason why the two paintings on it felt so familiar. The man in each couple had a cigar parked between his lips.

  “Ja.”

  “Heinrich, it’s Charlee.”

  “What’s the matter?” His voice sounded worried.

  “Nothing’s the matter. I just wanted to ask you something, since you keep dodging my calls.”

  “Ja.”

  Ja, he’s been dodging my calls, or Ja, go ahead and ask? I chose the latter. “Why did you miss critique group the day Melinda Walter was killed?”

  The silence stretched from here to Lichtenstein. “Heinrich? You still there?”