by Becky Clark
I slapped and banged my hands blindly on the surfaces around me. The knob. I turned it and immediately felt the cool outside air clear my senses a bit. My vision slowly opened up and I saw Sheelah on the floor, ashen, lips blue. I grabbed her arms and pulled her down the two concrete steps leading to the snowy front yard. Right into the amazed face of a woman out walking her dog.
“Call 911,” I gasped.
Twenty-Eight
Lance screamed up in his patrol car while I sat wrapped in a blanket in the back of an ambulance. I wanted to go back into Sheelah’s house to get my bag, but the hazmat crew wouldn’t let me.
Lance raced over, holding his phone to his ear, nodding. When he reached me, he said, “She’s right here, Mom. She’s fine.”
He held the phone out to me. Tears transformed the scene in Sheelah’s yard to a hazy blur when I heard my mother’s voice. “Bug, are you really okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I swiped at my eyes, trying to remain calm and controlled so she would too. “Little shook up, but the EMTs checked me out and said I’m fine. And now Lance is here, too. I’m fine.” I didn’t want to lose my composure or scare her, so I said, “They want to talk to me some more. I’ll call you later.”
“I love you, Bug.”
“Love you too, Mom.” I handed the phone back to Lance. “Thanks for calling her.”
“I called as soon as I heard. How are you?” He turned to the EMTs. “How is she?”
“She’ll be fine. Not too much exposure, no prolonged direct contact, and the ventilation was pretty good.”
Lance nodded, lips pursed. “And the perp?”
I preempted the EMT’s diagnosis. “She’ll be fine too. When they had her on the gurney she summoned the strength to say to me, ‘I’d tell you to go to hell but I never want to see you again.’ Pretty cogent, if you ask me. And a sentiment I share, by the way.”
The EMT chuckled. “Yeah, she’ll be a handful in jail.”
“Campbell and Ming here?” Lance glanced around the scene in Sheelah’s front yard, looking for the detectives. Neighbors, cops, medical personnel, hazmat guys, all standing around in clusters. But not Campbell and Ming.
“On their way, apparently. Can I borrow your phone? I need to call Ozzi.”
Lance handed it over.
I punched in the number and burst into tears the minute I heard Ozzi’s voice. Damn. And I’d been holding it together so well. I returned the phone to Lance and he filled Ozzi in while I tried to rein in my emotions. Then he pocketed the phone and said, “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“He works twenty minutes away.”
“Speed limit’s just a suggestion some days.”
“Call him back and tell him to be careful,” I sniffled. Lance crossed his arms and smirked. “Riiight.”
Detectives Campbell and Ming walked up behind Lance and he stepped aside, but he stayed close. Campbell whipped out his notepad. “Tell us everything.”
“You mean starting with how I told you Suzanne didn’t do it?”
Lance made a noise I couldn’t decode. It was either a warning or a choked-back laugh. Probably both. But I was right, plus I was recovering in an ambulance, so I got special dispensation to say I told you so.
Ming winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Point taken.”
“So you know she was innocent.”
“She’s not stupid, Ms. Russo,” Detective Campbell said. “Her attorney met us at the station and she confessed to the breaking and entering. She was off the hook for the murder as soon as we checked in with the owners of Espresso Yourself.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his head, leveling a glare at me. “You, on the other hand, lied to us about your whereabouts that night.”
“Only to save Suzanne from being railroaded by you. You were—”
Ming interrupted. “Stand down, both of you. We follow leads no matter where they take us. Some take us further afield than we’d like. But under the circumstances”—he cut his eyes at Campbell—“no charges will be filed against you. And Ms. Medina will be fine. Espresso Yourself isn’t pressing charges if she’ll come work for them to organize inventory and help upgrade their security. Now tell us exactly what happened here.”
Relieved for Suzanne, and myself, I recounted the day’s events. They took notes, asked clarifying questions, and made lots of mm-hmm noises.
Behind them, I saw Ozzi’s Prius pull up, blocking in Lance’s police car. He jumped out and, without closing the car door, raced across Sheelah’s lawn.
The detectives must have seen my face because they both turned to see what had captured my attention. They parted as I leaped out of the ambulance, throwing the blanket to the EMT inside. Ozzi caught me in his arms and held me while I sobbed. I cried for Melinda, I cried for Sheelah, I cried for my dad, I cried for all the hurt and anger and stress I’d caused and received over the past week.
“Shhh. It’s over. It’s all over,” Ozzi whispered, nuzzling my neck. “Everything’s fine.”
I took a deep, shuddery breath and kissed him, soft at first, then hard and hungry. I turned toward the detectives and EMTs who were pretending not to stare at us. “Can I go?”
Campbell looked at Ming, who nodded. Then they both looked at the EMTs.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” the medic said. “Take it easy, though, and call the hospital if anything changes.”
I snorted. Everything had already changed.
Twenty-Nine
The next Monday at critique group, I bumped into Kell’s driveway five minutes late. I thought I’d allowed myself plenty of time to drink my coffee in the parking lot where my dad was killed and still get to the meeting on time. But I sat too long, staring at the blood stain that had long ago disappeared while considering my reputation, which he’d worried so much about even when I was just a teenager. He was right, of course—all you really had was your reputation.
Melinda Walter would always be remembered as a ruthless bitch.
Unless she was remembered for her philanthropy.
Sheelah would always be remembered as a murderer. Unless she was remembered for her skills as a book doctor.
Dad will be remembered for single-handedly dismantling a human trafficking ring. Unless he’s remembered for going rogue, not following protocol, and getting himself, his informant, and a local businessman killed.
And me? What will I be remembered for, Dad? I couldn’t even imagine.
Kell’s valet hurried toward me when I pulled up and helped me with the huge balloon bouquet in my backseat. I carried it into the library where my entire group, sans Sheelah, was gathered.
Near the buffet, Kell and Cordelia chatted and sipped from china cups. AmyJo, Jenica, and Einstein sat at the enormous table enjoying breakfast. Heinrich filled his plate at the buffet.
They all turned when I walked in and went to arrange the balloons in the center of the table. Puzzled looks crossed their faces.
Jenica gestured at the bouquet with her fork. “Who made a sale this week?”
“Nobody. These are apology balloons. I’m sorry for suspecting, um, all of you for killing Melinda.”
Kell set down his cup and hugged me. “Don’t be silly. We would have done the same thing in your place. I guess we all could have been a bit more forthcoming.”
“You think?” I asked with a sarcastic smirk.
AmyJo nodded emphatically. “And we thought you might have killed her, too.” Nobody spoke. “C’mon. It crossed your minds.”
They all looked from one face to the other.
Cordelia broke the silence first. “Okay, fine. It crossed my mind.”
“Me too.” Jenica said.
“Me three.”
“Same here.”
“Ja.”
I laughed. “Good to know. But in all seriousness, I’m not completely at peace with my thought process or behavior.”
Cordelia placed one hand on my forearm. “But everything turned out for the best.”
“Fill your
plate, Charlee.” Kell waved an arm over the buffet table.
I dropped my messenger bag and filled a plate with scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and raspberry Danish. Heinrich placed a cup of coffee in front of me. As he set it down, he kissed me on the cheek.
“What was that for?” I asked, tilting my head. He winked at me. “Just felt like it, liebling.”
I pointed a piece of bacon across the table. “I still have a question, though, Jenica. Why did you lie about volunteering at the hospital?”
She straightened her spiked collar. “Ruins my image. Plus, Dooley’s parents hate me but I still want to visit his little sister whenever her asthma flares up and she gets admitted. So I just take off my Goth and hide in plain sight.”
“That’s exactly what Sheelah did,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay on the right side of the law, ma’am.”
“See that you do. I don’t want to investigate my friends for murder ever again.” I folded the bacon into my mouth.
AmyJo asked, “So Sheelah was the one feeding info to the reporter?”
I nodded, my mouth full.
Einstein asked, “Why didn’t the police check Sheelah’s alibi and figure out she wasn’t where she said she was?”
“According to Lance, they did check. She really did have an appointment for her fake emergency but she convinced the receptionist an ex-husband was stalking her and she had to cancel it. Told an epic story about the ex tracking her everywhere and using all kinds of impersonations—”
“Including cop?” Jenica guessed.
“Including cop. So in a fit of righteous female solidarity, the receptionist lied and said Sheelah was in the dentist’s chair when she wasn’t. Even got one of her friends to do the same at the ER the night before. She’s lucky she didn’t get thrown in jail too. But it just goes to show you what a master manipulator Sheelah is.”
“How did Sheelah get into Melinda’s car to fill it with the mercury?” Kell asked.
I laughed and a bit of egg shot across the table. “Sorry.” I pinched it between my fingers and placed it on the side of my plate. “Seems she disguised herself pretty well and flirted with the guard at the gate-house into Melinda’s neighborhood. She told him her car broke down and she was waiting for a cab, then asked if she could warm up in the gatehouse. She must have laid it on pretty thick, too, because he left her there when he went to do his rounds. She slipped out, Melinda’s car was unlocked, and the rest is history.”
“Just like how she flirted at the movies the other day.” AmyJo looked at the rest of the group. “Raise your hand if anyone has ever given you the early bird price two hours after it was over and free popcorn.” When no one did, she said, “I know, right?”
AmyJo began passing out her submission for the meeting. “All this has taught me something. My life isn’t as boring as I thought. And I’ve decided that write what you know isn’t such bad advice after all. I know things this week that I didn’t know last week. Like, Charlee’s new BFF sucked as a BFF. The slightly overweight longtime friend is and always has been an excellent BFF. Heinrich and Einstein can have true love, even though they’re so old.” She scrunched her face. “Sorry. And Glu-Pocalypse might be the perfect metaphor. So this is the first chapter of a new thing I’m working on. It’s a YA paranormal romance—again, no offense, guys. One mean girl”—AmyJo made it a point to eyeball me—“who might be a vampire, I’m not sure yet, and lives in a haunted house, ditches her old friend for a new bestie who is definitely a shape-shifter infected with something that makes her prey on humans to survive, but I don’t want her to be a zombie or a cannibal so I’m not sure yet how that works. But anyway, two ill-fated lovers”—she shrugged and smiled at Heinrich and Einstein—“stick to each other like Glu-Pocalypse even while the two BFFs who seem closer actually fall apart as soon as the haunted house starts to come alive. My working title is Glu-Pocalypse Can’t Fix Everything.”
AmyJo finished passing out the pages and sat down to a stunned silence.
I jogged my papers into a neat pile and smiled at her. “Can’t wait to read it.”
We spent the meeting reading, dissecting, and brainstorming AmyJo’s submission.
As we walked to our cars, which were arranged in a perfect line around Kell’s circular driveway, I flung my arm around my old friend’s shoulders. “I think you’re right. Write what you know makes perfect sense.”
AmyJo nodded. “And you know how to write mysteries. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t. Dinner tomorrow?”
“Can we go to Bonita Fajita?”
“No.”
She pouted. “Fine. But then you have to pay.”
“Fine.”
In the garden next to my car, the snow had melted in a perfect circle around the early-blooming crocuses. I saw purple and lemon-colored blooms peeking from the earth, reminding me that some things just happen. There will always be flowers that bloom in the spring, just like there will always be unstable people in the world. I had no power over either phenomenon.
Sliding into my car, I flicked Dad’s locker key hanging on the rear-view mirror. “Miss you, Dad.”
I held my hand in front of my face. No tremor.
Acknowledgments
It has taken a village to raise me. I couldn’t have written a paragraph, much less a book, without the many critique groups, writing and professional organizations, and very fine writers I’m lucky enough to know. A special shout-out goes to Sisters in Crime national and my stupendously awesome Colorado chapter. They’re my fun, my friends, my absolute inspiration.
I also owe my beta readers more than I can ever repay. Cynthia Kuhn, Karla Jay, MB Partlow, and Jessica Cornwell give me insightful constructive feedback, even when I don’t want to hear it.
And you, dear reader. There’s nothing more gratifying than hearing that I’ve entertained you for a bit. It’s my distinct honor and privilege when you choose to read my books. On the flip side, there’s nothing worse than hearing that I’ve made you cranky about something, so let me confess right here, right now, that I made up almost everything about the Denver Police Department to suit my fictional needs, so please don’t storm the castle with torches aflare to tell me they don’t use precincts and such. I already know. Please don’t be cranky.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that my agent Jill Marsal was really a good sport about my fictional agent-cide. I’m thrilled to say that she isn’t remotely like Melinda Walter.
Reviews make the world go ‘round … and I’d love it if you’d post a quick review of Fiction Can Be Murder.
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Copyright © 2020 by Becky Clark
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any references to historical events, real people, products, or places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Cover design by Steven Novak
ISBN: 978-1-7346893-4-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7346893-5-8 (ebook)
www.BeckyClarkBooks.com
For writers everywhere, even ones like Garth.
One
Waiting for someone to pick you up at the airport is like being forced to be eight years old again. Waiting at the curb for the school bus. Waiting in the corridor shoulder-to-shoulder with your line buddy until everyone in class has puffed out their cheeks, holding invisible “Quiet Bubbles” in their mouths until it’s acceptably hush-hush-hallway enough to march out to recess. Waiting for your mom to rescue
you much too late from a disastrous birthday party, like when she forces you to go to Tommy Ryan’s, that annoying hair-puller. She promised I’d have fun once I got there.
Why do parents lie like that? Did she really need two hours’ peace that desperately? If she’d only leveled with me that she needed a break from my incessant chatter, I’d have gladly sat quietly in a dim room mentally thinking up rhymes for my teacher, Mrs. McRucker’s, name. That always amused my eight-year-old self.
My thirty-year-old self wasn’t as easily appeased.
Again, I edged out from under the shelter of the overhang to peer down the roadway, hurrying back when rain began dripping off the tip of my nose.
“Where is she?” I spoke to myself, even though several people also waited nearby. Perhaps like me they were waiting for someone—parent, spouse, pal, clown car—to swoop in and pick them up at the Portland airport. Behind me, the terminal. In front of me, past the large concrete overhang, soft Oregon rain. To my left, bored or anxious or annoyed passengers, resigned or worried or irritated that their designated rides hadn’t shown up yet. To my right, the MAX light-rail train loading passengers for the trip to the Portland city center or other travel hubs. I’d already watched seven trains on the two tracks come and go. But still no Viv.
Despite my exasperation at having to wait for her, I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about hanging out with her again. I hadn’t seen Viv in a few years, but we’d had some glorious adventures in the past. Sharing hotel rooms at writers’ conferences like two teenagers at a slumber party, sitting on panels, teaching workshops together, and going on that book tour. Oy, that book tour. Our first books were published within three weeks of each other, so we’d organized a tour together through eight states stretching from my home in Colorado to hers in Oregon, hitting every major city as well as many podunk towns in between.
