Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  When he replied, I wished it had stretched farther. I could hear the anger in his voice, even though he fought to control it.

  “You have no right to ask me this question. Shame on you.” He also spoke a German paragraph, which might have only been one word. I guessed at the English translation from the way he spat it out, and I was glad it wasn’t in English.

  His stonewalling frustrated and angered me. “If you think you can punish my brother through me, you’ve got another think coming,” I snapped. “Lance made a rookie mistake, but you’ve got to let it go. I don’t know everything that happened, but none of your kids were hurt. And I don’t need this right now on top of everything else.”

  The longer the silence, the more I expected a stream of furious German expletives from him. Instead I heard laughter. “That dummkopf was your brother?”

  “Still is.”

  “Gott save Denver. Thought he’d be fired by now.”

  “He’s a good cop,” I said angrily. “Why do you want to hurt him?”

  “I don’t.” Heinrich sounded baffled. “I don’t want to deal with him, but—”

  Now I was baffled, too. “You’re not trying to get revenge all these years later through me?” As I said it, I realized how truly ridiculous I sounded.

  “You watch too much TV.”

  I wanted to tell him it was AmyJo’s theory, so technically she might be the one who watched too much TV. But maybe now he’d be ready to give me an alibi. I’d made him laugh, after all. I didn’t care any longer why he hadn’t come to the critique group meeting, so I asked the more important question: “Do you have an alibi for when Melinda was murdered? Sunday night until Monday morning?”

  “None of your business!”

  “Is too!”

  “Is not!”

  Heinrich hung up before I could ask why he was being so secretive about his whereabouts. And why would it make him so angry at me? Surely he understood why I had to ask. Unless he had no alibi. But wouldn’t he make one up if he was the killer and I came sniffing around? No meaningful insights came to me, so I refocused on my list and tapped my pen on the pad of paper. Because I’d made up with Ozzi—even though we hadn’t consummated our reconciliation—I decided to make nice with his sister, too, and perhaps get some answers. That old get more flies with honey thing, although why anyone wanted more flies had always puzzled me.

  When Bubbles answered, I said, “I need to apologize to you for our last conversation. I didn’t mean to accuse you of killing Melinda.” She must have heard from Ozzi that we’d reconciled, so she accepted my apology graciously.

  We made a little small talk, and then I said, “Hey, I’ve been thinking. I’m not doing a whole lot of writing of my own these days, so I wanted to pay you back for reading and critiquing my manuscripts. I’d be happy to read something you’ve written and offer some feedback if you’d like.”

  “That’s generous, Charlee, but I don’t have anything. I don’t actually write. I thought you knew that.”

  “You don’t? Then why were you so insistent—er, excited when Oz introduced us?”

  She laughed. “It’s embarrassing, but I felt a bit like a fangirl. I’d never met a real author before.”

  “So you’re not a wannabe writer?”

  “Nope. I wanted to be one of your first readers because it seems so glamorous and exciting.”

  My turn to laugh. “Glamorous? Really?”

  “Well, yeah. Until the cops came to question me.”

  Twenty-Three

  While waiting for AmyJo to come over, I finished the entire pot of coffee and twiddled my thumbs. She finally showed up a little before eleven, dressed all in black: sweatpants, sweatshirt, shoes, muffler around her neck. She also sported a black ski mask pushed up so it was just a hat, and she’d smudged her face with charcoal or something.

  “Geez, Ames, we’re not heading for the trenches on the Western Front,” I whispered.

  “So sue me,” she whispered back. “I wanted to be prepared for my first stakeout. Why are we whispering?”

  “Suzanne can hear every word we say over here.”

  “Everything? What about when you and Ozzi—”

  “Yes. Everything.”

  We gave dual full-body shudders.

  She eyeballed my outfit of jeans, boots, and Simpsons T-shirt. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  I looked down. “Seems so.”

  “Not very”—she waved at her own clothes—“black.” She dug in her purse. “At least rub this stuff on your face.”

  “Nope. But I will wear my black coat, if that’ll make you happy.”

  “Hey, it’s your surveillance. Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking. If she breaks into the bookstore tonight, how do you know she’s not just doing it for show? You know, to prove her alibi to you.”

  I stared at AmyJo like Peter O’Drool might stare at an algebra book.

  “Didn’t cross your mind?”

  I shook my head.

  “No matter. We’ll be able to tell by her body language and demeanor and stuff.”

  I doubted that was true, but I’d already polished off a pot of coffee so I wasn’t sleeping anyway. We might as well blunder our way through this.

  AmyJo turned off the lights and we waited at either end of the couch in my dark apartment.

  It wasn’t long before AmyJo was softly snoring and I’d felt my way to the bathroom to pee twice. The second time I decided to flush. I wasn’t even sure Suzanne was home.

  But as I settled back into my corner of the couch, I heard her front door open and close. I felt my way to the window and watched her walk across the parking lot. I craned my neck the opposite direction and saw her car parked in its regular spot, next to mine in the carport.

  “AmyJo, this is it. Eagle has flown.”

  “Mfff?”

  “I think Suzanne is headed for the coffee shop. Let’s go.”

  We tiptoed to my car—as much as one can tiptoe through a foot of snow—and peeked over the hood until Suzanne reached the pedestrian gate. As soon as she went through it, we got in the car. I kept my distance, rolling up and down the lanes in the parking lot. As soon as Suzanne had crossed the street, clearly heading to Espresso Yourself, I cut my lights, circled around to the other end of the alley, and watched her fiddle with the handle until the door opened.

  “She’s done this before,” I whispered.

  When Suzanne disappeared into the shop, AmyJo and I exited the Kia, being careful not to slam the doors. We scurried to the back of the coffee shop, but there were no windows.

  AmyJo twisted the doorknob even though I shook my head so hard I hurt my neck.

  “Locked,” she whispered.

  We made our way to the front, where I was suddenly overly aware of how we, meaning AmyJo, looked. A bit too conspicuous to be out for a midnight stroll in the frigid night air. I scurried to the front window with AmyJo right behind me. I pulled her arm until we were both squatting there, eyeballs even with the bottom of the window. I squinted into the dark but saw nothing unusual. The tables and chairs on the right side of the coffee shop were neatly stacked upside down, four to a table. Straight ahead there was no activity behind the counter, no lights on in the kitchen. In the book area on the left, everything was quiet as well. Overstuffed chairs sagged like bored employees lounging in a break room. Magazines and books were piled on the end tables scattered around the area. A couple of boxes with books peeking over the top waited for shelf space near the stacks.

  AmyJo and I locked questioning eyes.

  When I turned back to the window, though, two brown eyes and a hairy face peered out at me, head cocked. I hit the deck and pulled AmyJo to the sidewalk with me.

  “The dog,” I mouthed.

  She responded by silently reenacting Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

  I placed my hand on the top of her head to keep her down while I raised myself up millimeter by millimeter. When my eyes reached the bottom of the window again,
the dog’s nose was pressed to the windowpane and her tail was wagging. She stared at me, beginning to get excited about this game, and then suddenly disappeared.

  AmyJo struggled against the weight of my hand and I let go. She slowly raised herself to the level of the window and we both watched as Suzanne expertly managed the microwave in the dim light. The red light beeped and went out. She pulled something out and placed it on the floor, where the dog gobbled it up and then raised her head, expectations high. Suzanne gave her something else, which also disappeared, but this time, even though the pooch clearly wanted more, Suzanne instead patted her back and gave her some loving scritches before heading back behind the counter. She pulled a small loaf from cellophane, placed it on a baking sheet, and popped it in the toaster oven.

  “Blueberry butter braid,” I whispered.

  “Your sense of smell is remarkable,” AmyJo whispered back.

  “No … never mind.”

  We watched until Suzanne had pulled the pastry from the oven, sliced and placed it on a plate, and then headed to one of the small tables near the comfy chairs. She manhandled a big wingback chair so its back was to the window, then carried the table with the pastry on it so it was angled in front and to the right of the chair. She knew the correct angles to hide herself from view if anyone wandered down the sidewalk and peered inside, yet also remain in a pool of light cast by the street light so she would be able to read.

  Ducking behind the bookshelves, she returned with three books. Two she dropped to the floor. She picked up the pastries and they disappeared, along with her, into the recesses of the wingback chair.

  Yes, she’d done this before.

  We watched for a while longer, but the only movement was the dog sprawling on the rug near Suzanne, clearly content with the snack and her company.

  AmyJo ducked down and leaned her back against the wall. “How long do we have to do this? I’m freezing.”

  “Me too.” I jerked my head toward the alley.

  As soon as we climbed in the car and the relative warmth hit me, I had to pee again. “Dammit.” I glanced around the dark alley. No good venues. “Let’s talk this through and distract me from my bladder.”

  “Turn on the heater.”

  “She’ll hear.”

  “Maybe, but she’ll just think it’s a car. And I doubt she’d hear it from all the way back here.”

  I turned the key. “But only until it gets warm.”

  “Fine.”

  “Now, talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Suzanne. This.” I fluttered both hands. “My investigation.”

  “Don’t be cranky,” AmyJo replied. “It’s not my fault you have a bladder the size of a lentil. Let’s see … Even if she is doing this for your benefit tonight, it’s obvious she knows her way around in there.”

  “True. And I still can’t come up with a motive for her. She has no connection to Melinda.”

  “That you know of.” AmyJo yawned.

  “That I know of.” The car was warm enough, so I turned off the engine. Silence settled over us.

  “Really? That’s all we have to talk about?” I finally said.

  AmyJo didn’t answer. Her mouth hung open and she was fast asleep. My full concentration was on my bladder now, and it was demanding some sort of action. I contemplated driving home and running inside to pee, but what if Suzanne left the coffee shop while we were gone? I had to pretend I was camping. Urban camping, since there were no trees nearby. I hated the idea, but I quietly shut the car door and picked my way through the snow toward the dumpster.

  I held my breath, undid my jeans, and squatted. Relief was momentary because I heard a disembodied voice say, “You nasty, girl. Git yo’self outta here.”

  There is a physiological truth—at least for me—that once I begin peeing, I must finish the task completely. If I hold my breath, I must start breathing again soon. If I tense my muscles, I must start moving again soon. And now that I’d done all three, all systems had to, pardon the pun, go again.

  So they did, even though the homeless person I’d disturbed began to stir. Something whacked at me, occasionally landing a soft blow on my arm or back. I was completely at his or her mercy, with my pants around my ankles at two in the morning in the snow in an alley behind a coffee shop.

  I finished as quickly as possible, doing up my pants while on the move away from the voice and the dumpster.

  “You white girls. Drink too much, then pee in somebody’s house.” A scraggly-bearded face wrapped tight in a blanket scowled at me in the faint moonlight. He waved a small hand-towel, which is what he must have been hitting me with.

  My terror faded a bit, especially since I had my hand on the car door. “You’re absolutely right, sir, that was terribly rude of me,” I stage-whispered. I dove into the car and slammed the door shut behind me, locking it. I was gasping and panting, more scared now than when I was out there.

  “My brain must have been so relieved, ugh, to pee that I didn’t—” I turned to AmyJo. Sound asleep. I looked back toward the dumpster.

  It was clear, I could see now, that it was makeshift housing: cardboard lean-to supported on one side by a full shopping cart, tarps and blankets cascading down to the asphalt. I was happy to see that I’d peed on a slight incline, directed away from his shelter.

  I dug in my purse and pulled out a twenty and a protein bar. I tiptoed back to the man, whispering, “Hey, I want you to have this. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  He poked his head out and yelled, “Why do you keep bothering me? Leave me alone!”

  I dropped the cash and weighed it down with the bar, then hurried back to my car again, hoping Suzanne wouldn’t hear. It might not matter if she saw me, but if she was playing some game and using me as one of her pawns, then I should at least try to keep the upper hand.

  But I’d rather both she and the homeless guy simply went back to what they were doing and ignore me.

  I stared at the dumpster, finally seeing a hand reach out to snatch my apology from the snow.

  AmyJo continued to snore while I tried to figure out exactly what I was doing out there. Suddenly I jolted and realized I’d fallen asleep, too. I had no idea if it had been a few minutes or an hour. Everything looked the same in the alley.

  “Ames, wake up.” I poked her in the upper arm until she stirred.

  She straightened and groaned. “Ow. This is not a comfy car.”

  “I don’t think they ever marketed it as a bed.” I rearranged myself. “I fell asleep too. I’m going back around to see if she’s still in there.”

  I snuck around the front of the building, again hoping nobody would see me. All this time and I still hadn’t come up with a plausible reason for skulking around in the middle of the night. Not very good for a fiction writer.

  I crawled the last few feet on my hands and knees until I was directly under the window again, glad that Lavar and Tuttle had cleared the sidewalk. I inched my way upward and peeked in. The furniture was still where Suzanne had moved it, but no dog sprawled on the rug. I raised myself higher. Still nothing. I stood mashed against the wall at the intersection where it met the window. I craned my neck, sure I’d missed her.

  I was about to give up and go home when the dog, tail wagging madly, raced over to the window. I ducked out of sight in case Suzanne was still inside. I peeked and saw the dog race across the bookstore side of the shop. She stopped in front of Suzanne, who held a medium-sized cardboard box. I watched her pluck titles off the shelves, read the backs, and replace most of them haphazardly until she’d dropped three books into the box. She slid the box onto the front counter and went around behind, returning with three cellophane-wrapped butter braids that she plopped into the top of the box. Squatting down, she rubbed and petted the dog, then picked up her box and headed toward the back of the shop.

  I raced around the side of the building, slipping and sliding the whole way. When the Kia came into view, I frantically waved at AmyJo to m
ove the car so Suzanne wouldn’t see.

  The car wasn’t moving. When I got closer, I saw AmyJo wasn’t either. Her mouth hung open and I knew she was snoring.

  If Suzanne came out and looked to her left, she’d see my car at the other end of the alley. If she saw the car, she’d know I was there. If she knew I was there—oh my gosh! Did she lure me to the coffee shop for some reason? I dove back to the front of the building. I didn’t know what to do. AmyJo was in the car. Was she in danger if Suzanne saw her? I peeked around the corner but didn’t see Suzanne. I took some long strides toward the car.

  I froze and let loose with a strangled cry when a pool of light spilled out the back door of the coffee shop. But it didn’t quite reach me.

  The homeless man stuck his head out of his tent. He stared at me, then the Kia, then Suzanne emerging from the shop, juggling her box. He scrambled out of his tarps and blankets. I stepped backward, ready to flee.

  He shuffled toward Suzanne. “Hey,” he said to her.

  She jumped. “Oh, hey, Daryl. I didn’t think you’d be out here tonight. You should be in the shelter.”

  “Hate the shelter. You know dat.” He maneuvered around, taking the box from her and making sure her back was to me while she locked up Espresso Yourself. “That my blueberry?” He pulled out one of the butter braids. While they discussed the merits of blueberry over strawberry, he looked at me from over her shoulder and tipped his head toward the Kia. He turned back to Suzanne. “I ever tell you the story of when I was a professor?”

  I took the opportunity to make a dash for the Kia after giving him a wave of gratitude. I slid into the car and before the engine had barely turned over, I reversed out of the alley.

  AmyJo bolted upright, and I told her what had happened as I careened home. We raced for my regular parking spot and then for my front door. I kept the lights off and peeked out from behind the curtains. Less than ten minutes later, Suzanne trudged through the snow carrying the box.

  A few minutes later we heard her front door open and close, and we collapsed on the couch.