Fame and Fortune and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  How could one person have so much food inside them? And why was the bulk of it still identifiable? I’d never eat a hamburger again for as long as I lived.

  “I’m billing Olivia for that,” Hank muttered.

  Loyalty to Reading aside? I couldn’t wait to talk to Pamela and have her write the story of a lifetime.

  The press were having a field day, obviously, from the not so subtle ways they crowded as best they could despite the efforts of the Curtis County sheriff’s department. Jill, Crew and Robert had their hands full, the media and even the watching crowd pressing against the barricades while Carter and a few others in dark suits cruised like watchful panthers with sunglasses and earbuds, looking dangerous enough to hold the bulk of the curious back from the carriages. Didn’t keep the giant lenses from pointing at us, a few smirks in the gathering. One man in particular, small and compact, caught my attention because he was the bravest of the bunch, making it all the way to the street before Jill could chase him back. He grinned at me, waved in jaunty greeting, dark curls a deeper red than mine and with that saucy look brash men get when they’re having fun before disappearing into the crowd again.

  Skip noticed, lurching to his feet, screaming after him. “RUSSELL! You little weasel, I’ll…” The rest was a garbled mess of words that made no sense while Skip’s energy finally seemed to fade and he sat once more, mumbling into his flask.

  Please, please. I just needed this to be over. And for Petunia and I to exit without getting crushed by a football player in a stupor.

  Town hall appeared at the end of the street, the podium we’d been heading for finally in view. While Reading was a small place, this whole parade joke and a half had lasted far longer than it should have been permitted to. Once Skip was out of the carriage I was hoofing it back to Petunia’s, even if I had to go in my bare feet and carry these stupid shoes in one hand and the portly pug in the other.

  Another minute. That was all I needed. I started counting down from sixty to one, tracking the seconds by my heartbeats that were a bit too fast for regular time but kept losing my place. And Skip wasn’t going to give me the reprieve I needed. Of course not. As Hank pulled the Clydes to a halt next to the podium, the drunk—and possibly stoned, I voted for both because surely there was layers to his intoxication I had yet to fathom—football star once more rose to stand over me, towering above the crowd who’d followed from the parade route. He swayed as he did, staring down over those who gazed up at him, some even with a bit of respect remaining.

  Until he opened his damned fool mouth.

  “This town,” he shouted, “is the worst piece of crap garbage heap town ever. Reading sucks!” Everyone stared in shock, me included, while Willow hung her head, hand over her face, and Olivia bolted out the side of her carriage, running toward us. Too late. A few expletives escaped him before his coherence returned. “I hate this place. I’ve always hated it. You’re all pathetic for staying. As stupid as believing any of you could ever amount to anything or anyone.” Wait, was he talking about them? Or himself? Wow, this was a show I really wished I’d missed. Where was my quiet garden afternoon when I needed it? Instead of getting to gape at the story Jill would have told me later, nicely distanced from and suitably horrified and amused by her experience and his idiocy, I was living it firsthand.

  Lucky me.

  Skip swayed on his feet, tossing back the last of the liquid in his flask. “I hope you rot here forever.”

  The booing started at the back of the crowd but built up volume and layers pretty quickly. Olivia’s dash ended abruptly as Carter stopped her, frowning at her, leaning in to say something. Likely to prevent her from attacking the man he worked for. I know if I was her I’d be ready to kill him and hide the body and never, ever speak of this again.

  Oddly funny, though, come to think of it. Enough so I felt a hysterical giggle building in the back of my throat, the kind of amusement that would end in me unable to breathe with tears pouring down my face and making a massive fool of myself because this wasn’t funny. Not really. Though in the wake of Skip’s little show, me breaking down into bits and pieces would hardly be noticed, so there was that saving grace to keep me from utter humiliation.

  I failed to notice, in my distraction with my own struggles, that Skip had fallen suddenly silent. It wasn’t until the crowd went quiet I looked up, while the shadow of the mountain that was the football player leaned into the shade of the real mountain backdrop. Wait, why did it feel like he was coming toward me?

  It wasn’t until he landed on me, sagging into my lap, I realized my original terrified concern had come true. Only, this wasn’t some ordinary collapse, not a drug or alcohol unconsciousness, a tumble into sleep or passing out from mere chemical conditioning. No, his fall was made worse when I tried to push him off and felt that instant—that impossible to miss moment of utter horror—when he breathed his last acerbic breath into the spring air.

  In the stunning sunshine, dressed in the sweater I’d wanted to share with someone who could treat me like I meant something to them, I half-shrank, half-sagged under the dead body of Reading’s most famous son.

  ***

  Chapter Eleven

  While I was accustomed to dead bodies by now, having one laying across my lap for any length of time had a vastly different feel to, say, finding one drowned in my koi pond or observing from a distance as one collapsed into a dosed slice of chocolate cake. Up close and personal? Not exactly my favorite.

  I know there was screaming (likely my own) and shouting (from all around me) and panic (combination of the two), but the time it took for Skip Anderson to gasp his last and someone to manhandle the bulky body from my person seemed far longer than absolutely necessary. Mind you, I would have preferred not to be part of the process at all, thanks very much, but in retrospect I suppose a few seconds with the freshly dead corpse wasn’t that big a deal.

  Reality, however? I’m positive it took Crew Turner six million years to do the deed. At least it felt that long, time stretched out into infinity tainted by the reek of alcohol, the radiating residue of the dead body’s ambient heat, the overpowering stench of his cologne and some bodily fluids that had to have escaped upon his passing. All while I was being slowly and permanently damaged by the event in question.

  Yes, I know. The previous comes across as rather clinical and detached. Would you prefer I confessed that the second Skip’s body hit the deck and my person I started shrieking like a banshee, backpedaling with my high heels scraping over the floor of the carriage while he slowly slithered down to wedge into the small space between the seats, big head draped over my thigh, blackness closing in while I struggled to breathe past my endless, throat tearing screams?

  There you go, then. You’re welcome.

  I felt the carriage rock, heard someone grunt. Where was Hank, damn it? My attempts to shove Skip off me only succeeded in pushing him further and deeper into the space between the benches, trapping me utterly beneath dead weight and green velvet. All the sensation in my legs had left, squashed out by the weight of him, cutting off circulation to my lower extremities. Would I have to have them amputated? Was he not only scarring my psyche but this disaster on the path to rendering me a double amputee? Anything was preferable to sitting there, staring down at the corpse that used me for a resting place. I would have happily sawed off my own legs just to escape.

  “Fee, breathe.” And then Crew was there, face tight and drawn, voice so low, so deep it penetrated my screaming and cut off the sound. My ears rang from my own vocal protest and I finally managed a full, shaking breath, seeing him waver over me and knew as warm wetness trickled down my cheeks I was crying. And that Crew Turner witnessed it.

  That was a big slap to the face, enough to pull me together and shake off the shock of my predicament. I doubted anyone could fault me my initial reaction, but I was a Fleming, damn it. I didn’t cry in public—not even when I found out my ex-boyfriend of five years had been making a fool of me by cheat
ing our entire relationship. Not when I left Reading for what I thought was forever. Not when my Grandmother Iris died. I didn’t cry. Especially not in front of someone like him.

  Crew’s big hands grasped Skip, firmly and efficiently pulling him off me and back toward the other bench. It took every single scrap of control I had in my body not to scramble out the rest of the way and run home, still screaming, and into the nearest hot shower, clothes or no clothes. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on Crew and let him do his job while I went for zen.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Jill appeared over my right shoulder, the carriage rocking as she stepped up on the wheel well and settled one hand on my arm. That touch meant more to me than she would ever know and I blinked away the last of my terror driven tears, wiping my face with both hands, looking down at the fawn pug beside me who stared at Crew as if she, too, was overwhelmed by what just happened. I hugged her to me, checking her over, using that focus as the means to ignore what Crew was doing. How his quick examination of the body did nothing to free me, my calves and feet still tangled up with the corpse.

  “Looks like an OD,” Crew muttered, clearly for Jill but reaching me, too.

  “He was drinking from a flask and seemed either drunk or stoned when he got in at Petunia’s.” Hey, that was more like it. Good one, Fee. Big girl panties were a bit snug but they offered awesome support.

  “Fee,” Crew leaned toward me, one hand on my thigh, his touch layering over the steady presence of Jill’s. I wasn’t alone. It was okay. And it was just a dead guy. No biggie or anything. Breathe in. “Are you all right?” Breathe out.

  I nodded, swallowed, tried a smile while my cheeks twitched and my lips trembled. “Just get us out of this, okay?” Yes, I thought of Petunia. Of course I did. I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.

  “Can you give me one more minute?” He winced a little, glanced at Jill. “Dr. Aberstock is right here and I want him to look before I move you.”

  Evidence preservation. Right. I had to think like a cop at a time like this, even if I never got to be one. “Just tell him to hurry up,” I said between clenched teeth. Petunia shivered next to me, whining softly while Crew retreated and was replaced by the elderly and mild mannered Dr. Aberstock. He patted my hand before taking a look at Skip while I stared at Petunia’s wrinkled noggin and ignored the loud chatter of the crowd, the way the wind had turned chill and the fact the sun had gone behind a cloud at some point and now I wished I had a winter coat.

  I knew it was shock, that a stiff shot of something with alcohol in it and a block of time to process was what I really needed. Instead, I got to sit there and listen to Dr. Aberstock hum softly to himself while his kindly grandfather persona showed nothing of the care he took in his work before speaking, presumably to Crew.

  “Signs of overdose.” He didn’t sound surprised. “I’ll have to do a full tox panel, though, so don’t quote me. But it certainly looks that way.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” I felt Dr. Aberstock leave, looked up when Crew reappeared. “I just need to look you over, is that all right?” How careful he sounded, how slow and gentle. Like I’d break if he wasn’t soft and cautious. Well, maybe he was right. I’d never seen him look so worried before. What expression had my face twisted into that he seemed so afraid of my present state of mind?

  “It’s fine,” I said. Nodded and exhaled through my open mouth. Unclenched my hands from around Petunia. Inhaled. “I’m fine.”

  “I know you are,” Crew said. “I’ll be fast.” He scanned me with his gaze, my legs, my lap. Looked at my fingers, the floor under my feet. “Did he touch you besides falling on you? At any point?”

  I shook my head, feeling Daisy’s careful upsweep come loose, the massive weight of my red hair tumbling around me. “Just when he fell,” I said. “But he did puke over the side at one point. In front of Sammy’s Coffee.” And Captain Reading’s statue.

  “I’ve got it here, boss,” Jill said. “I’ll bag some for Doc.”

  Crew’s big hand rose, held out toward me. “Good enough for me. Come on, Fee. Let’s get you out of here.”

  I wasn’t even sure I could stand, that my wobbly legs would support me. It took Crew and Jill, who leaned in over the edge of the carriage, to untangle me the rest of the way from Skip, his long legs taking up way too much space as far as I was concerned. I didn’t look up, couldn’t, kept my eyes locked on the toes of my high heels. Stumbled with Petunia in my grasp and almost fell until strong arms caught me and swung me up and out of the way.

  So tempting to lay my head on Crew’s shoulder, to breathe in the scent of his fabric softener—the same one we used at Petunia’s—and wash away the stench of Skip, to clutch at the collar of the sheriff’s uniform shirt and cry into the faint shadow of his beard. I think I would have, too. Just given in to the horrible event I’d endured, if it weren’t for Robert.

  “Poor Fanny,” my cousin said, smirk as nasty as I’d ever seen it. “Need a big strong man to take care of you, little girl?”

  The thing was I didn’t get to chew his head off. Was instantly prepared to, almost thanked him for knocking me back into anger and irritation and out of this odd weakness I felt. But someone beat me to it.

  “Officer Carlisle,” Crew’s rumbling voice reached me through the walls of his chest, vibrating into my body from our close contact as he stood there on the sidewalk with me in his arms, my pug cuddled on top, “the next time you open your mouth, you’d better have something helpful to say or you’ll be finding a new vocation.”

  Robert fish lipped even as Crew set me carefully down on the sidewalk and steadied me with both hands on my shoulders. I looked up at him, Petunia chuffing her soft concern, seeing odd things in his face I wasn’t in any kind of position to process just now.

  “I’ll have Jill escort you home,” he said. “When you’re ready.”

  “That’s all right, Crew.” And then Dad was there, Mom, my mother hugging me so tight Petunia squeaked in protest. “We’ll take care of her.”

  I looked back over my shoulder, wobbling on my stupid shoes, at the sight of Crew barking orders, the crowd snapping photos, feeling like I was moving underwater and out of focus, and for once not even remotely curious about what happened.

  I just wanted to go home.

  ***

  Chapter Twelve

  I made it a block and just outside the crush of onlookers when my legs gave out. Mom took Petunia, Dad supporting me but as soon as I was able to kick off the idiotic shoes on my sore and unhappy feet I felt a ton better.

  “I’m okay, I promise,” I said, now annoyed and grasping for that emotion as a source of strength. I shrugged Dad’s arm off and crossed my own over my chest, hugging myself while I stomped toward Petunia’s, the dirty pavement under my bare feet icy cold and disgusting but adding an extra layer to my anger. Perfect. Being mad would get me home without another dumb show of weakness and vulnerability.

  Oh. My. God. Did I really let Crew heft me into his arms like some kind of damsel in distress needing an action hero? In front of the entire damned town? Including, I now recalled, the white-furred scowling Bakery Queen who’d glared like she planned my downfall?

  Screw Vivian. But honestly. I’d never, ever live this down. Didn’t help I could still smell him on me, either. Or that my pillow had that same scent as a constant reminder. Time to switch fabric softeners.

  “It’ll only be a matter of time before the press converges on the B&B.” Dad’s grim tone and long stride helped me focus. I had to hurry to keep up, poor Mom huffing to match our pace. I turned and took the pug from her, lightening her load before continuing on.

  “I’ll talk to Carter,” I said. “But it’s a pretty good bet the whole slew will be leaving Reading in short order. So the press can come at me all they want. There won’t be anyone here to badger.”

  “Fee.” Dad’s tone sounded choked and when I looked up at him his anxiety was clear. “Skip died on you.” He seemed to hesitate before r
ushing on. “You’re the one they’re going to want to talk to.”

  Oh, crap. And just freaking lovely.

  I’d never been so happy to see Petunia’s, the towering white colonial beckoning me to hurry inside and slam the door—yes, slam it as hard as I could—and go hide somewhere with a bottle of wine or maybe some scotch. Instead, I ran up the stairs, depositing my pug into the foyer, and hugged my best friend who hurtled herself into my arms.

  “Fee.” Daisy whispered my name before letting me go. “Willow’s upstairs. She’s locked herself in her room and won’t let anyone in.” She bit her full lower lip, glancing first at Mom then Dad. “This is a disaster.”

  “You’re telling me.” Olivia stormed in behind us, pushing Mom out of the way, confronting me, red faced and trembling like this was somehow my fault. “What the hell just happened?”

  I would have hit her. I’m positive my fist, clenched at my side, would have made impressive contact with her face. I even saw it play out in my head, the swing, the impact, the massive satisfaction just before the searing pain in my knuckles told me I’d made a terrible life choice. I had a temper, I’d never tried to deny that. But I wasn’t the kind of person who usually resorted to physical violence, despite the elementary school precedent that had left Vivian with a broken nose of her own.

  What about this whole situation had turned me into a budding pugilist?

  “Back off, Olivia.” Mom had shown our mayor her teeth already, on Valentine’s Day. And while my kindhearted and efficient mother had been a teacher and a principal for years, I’d only ever been personally guided by her steady and reasonable style of encouragement and punishment. To see her yet again lose her cool, show her own temper, well. It made me feel a bit better about my leanings toward punching the woman in the face.