“Can’t you control your children?” snarled a skinny purple-head, ducking to avoid a flying Sports Illustrated.
“Sorry. Hyperactive.” I gave her a what-can-you-do look.
“Rooooaaarrr!” Casey pranced around the sofas and chairs. “I’m a lion! I’m a lion!”
My silver-haired pal murmured, “Oh, they’re good.”
Meanwhile, Jonathan attempted to shinny up a massive ficus tree near the showroom windows. “Look at me, Katy.”
The tree rocked precariously, and I was about to run to his rescue when a salesman beat me to him, shouting, “Get down from there.”
Too late. Jonathan and the tree crashed to the floor, cracking the heavy terra-cotta planter and spilling dirt on the tile floor.
The salesman yelled at me, “You’re paying for this.”
Jonathan was splayed on the floor, looking stunned but unhurt so I whipped out my cell and snapped a photo before running to him, crying, “Baby, are you okay?”
I knelt beside him, and he whispered, “I’m okay, Katy. That was really fun. Can I do it again?”
“No, sweetie. But I want you to yell really loud, ‘My back hurts,’ and then pretend to cry.”
He took a deep breath and bellowed, “My back hurts! My back hurts. Waaaa!”
I shouted at the beleaguered salesman, “Why do you have such dangerous things in your lobby for children to get hurt on?” Then I snapped a few more photos. “These are for my father. He’s a personal injury attorney.”
In the meantime, Casey had morphed into a kitty and was crawling around the seating area, meowing and rubbing his head on people’s legs. The disgruntled patrons shot me killer glares as they scrambled to get away from the creepy cat who was attempting to climb into a burly biker’s lap.
“Dude, not cool. Chill,” he said, setting the kid-cat on the couch next to him. “Act normal.”
“He is acting normal,” I snapped at the biker. Then I got weepy. “And I am doing everything the child psychologist has told me to do.”
The poor guy looked miserable. “I’m sorry. That was un-PC of me.”
I sat next to my friend and retrieved a People magazine off the floor. I flipped through the pages, the picture of calm as the kids screamed bad kid words.
“Stupid, stupid. You are stupid,” sang Jonathan. “Everyone is ugly and stupid.”
“Dumb dodo,” Casey trilled. “You are a stupid dumb dodo head.”
Out of the corner of my vision, I saw several people tapping on the accounts window and gesturing wildly at my children.
What if they don’t break down and give me a check. How much longer can my crew maintain this level of bedlam? I wonder where the security guard is? They wouldn’t call the cops would they? Omigod, what am I doing?
Mr. Chuckles entered the lobby and the kids ratcheted up the manic another notch. “A clown! A clown! Aunt Katy? Can we see the clown? Pleeease?”
I glanced up from my magazine and smiled coolly at Matthew. “Of course you can. Mr. Chuckles loves to give piggyback rides.”
The kids charged him. Jonathan grappled his legs while Casey tried to climb up his back, but wound up pulling Mr. Chuckles’s rainbow pants down.
“Get these damn little monsters offa me,” yelled Mr. Chuckles, yanking up his big pants.
“Ummm.” Casey’s eyes bugged out. “You said a really, really bad word.”
My lady friend wheeled her walker over and got in Matthew’s face. “You, young man, are a disgrace to your race.” She turned and winked at me as he stomped away.
The kids threw their arms around my legs, and Casey rubbed his snotty nose on my jeans. “Please, Aunt Katy. Can we go get ice cream now?”
I squatted and hugged my A-Team, ready to accept defeat. “Yes. You kids did great. I’m so proud of you.”
“You have got to be kidding,” Nina said from behind me. “You’re taking these little shits for ice cream after what they did here?”
Jonathan pointed at Nina. “Shit’s a bad word and you stink.”
I released the children and faced her. “Sorry, boys. Looks like we can’t go just yet. Go play some more.”
“Hold it right there, brats.” She held out a check. “Here. You win.”
I accepted the money with a gracious smirk. “Pleasure doing business with you, Nina.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
BETTER DEAD THAN WED
TUESDAY • SEPTEMBER 10
Posted by Katy McKenna
Private
Got a text from Nora last night. Can you come for tea tomorrow at 3? Really didn’t want to. But how could I say no?
Nora, always the perfect hostess, had set up a tea tray in her living room on the fringed ottoman that doubles as a coffee table. I made myself busy doctoring my Earl Grey, then leaned back into the brocade sofa cushions, sipping my tea and waiting for her to initiate the conversation.
“This is certainly a bit uncomfortable, isn’t it?” she said, stirring her tea.
“A lot has happened.” I tried to sound light but wasn’t feeling it. “But I need to thank you again for what you did. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“There’s nothing to repay, Katy. I don’t plan to ever do anything like that again, but I’m not sorry we did it. Especially after we discovered the child pornography on his laptop. Such a contemptible man.”
She picked up a plate of warm snickerdoodles. “I know what a sweet tooth you have.”
I wasn’t the least bit hungry, but I nibbled one to be polite while she topped my teacup.
“I have something for you. A letter from Debra. I found it…” She blinked rapidly, clearing her throat. “When I found her.” She pulled an envelope from under a floral napkin on the silver tray. It had my name on it and looked like it had been sealed, then torn open. “I know it looks like I snooped, but I didn’t. It was already like this.”
I started to open it and she gestured me to stop. “No. Not here. It’s meant to be private, so please, wait until you get home.”
I tucked it in my purse. “Are you up to telling me about when you found her?”
“Debra knew I’d be the one who found her. I’d been checking in on her several times a day, either by phone or I’d drop by, bring groceries, sit for a bit, do chores. You know.” She shrugged with a trace of a smile. “The day I found her…” She paused, pressing her lips tight, and smoothing the napkin in her lap. “She’d texted, asking me to come over at six. I found her on the patio. She spent a lot of time out there. She joked that she’d be in the dark soon enough.” Nora stopped, dabbing her tears with the napkin. “She was bundled in her blanket with a sweater over her shoulders, in spite of the warm weather. Her purse was in her lap. I hoped she was just napping and not…” Nora shuddered, struggling. “I checked her pulse.”
I moved to Nora’s side and embraced her. “I can’t imagine losing your best friend.”
“It’s really hard even when you know it’s coming. I thought I was prepared. I really did. I knew there would be a day when I would find her…” She lifted her chin, swallowing. “Gone.”
Nora stopped, unable to speak for a few moments. I refrained from the usual lame platitude: It’ll be okay.
“I found that letter for you, and one for me, when I moved her purse.” She paused, fighting her tears. “Katy, she killed herself. She injected herself with the same medication we injected into your uncle.”
“It was better this way, Nora. She was so miserable.”
“I know. I just wish she would have let me help her,” she sobbed, pressing her face into my shoulder. “She shouldn’t have died alone.”
“Honey, she couldn’t risk you getting charged with murder.”
“It’s so stupid. It’s what she wanted.” She pulled away, her eyes imploring mine. “And there was no hope, so why? Why couldn’t I help her, Katy?”
Nora stood and crossed the room to close a window, then returned, sitting opposite me. Trying so hard to be stoic.
>
“Her letter to me was labeled, ‘Read me now, dear friend.’ In it she asked me to get rid of the syringe. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d committed suicide. Evidently she had been keeping that filled syringe until the time was right.” She swallowed. “I had to pry it from her hand. I hid it in my purse before calling anyone.” She drained her teacup and then refilled our cups. “Katy, please do me a favor.”
“Anything.” I spooned sugar into my tea, afraid to hear her request.
“Please tell everyone that Debra didn’t want a funeral.”
After I had left Nora, I drove home, thinking about Debra and my final visit with her. And then it hit me. Nora had found Debra with her purse in her lap. I had put the purse in her lap. The syringe must have been in the purse. I had assisted Debra’s passing. I pulled over under a shady tree and sat, trying to take that in.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “I didn’t know and it’s what she wanted. Needed.” I thought a moment. “And I would have done it even if I had known.”
After a healthy dose of doggy smooches and a cold Eskimo kiss from Tabitha, I took Debra’s letter to the backyard and sat under the pepper tree. Anxious to read it, terrified to read it, my hands trembled as I removed the two-page letter from the envelope, treating it like an ancient document. Taped to the second page was a small key with a tag attached.
The pages were dated two days before her death. I read the first page.
Dearest Katy,
The key is to a safety deposit box containing a letter of confession. I had my lawyer help me draft it. He knows nothing about you and Nora. The box is only to be opened if you or Nora ever need to clear your names.
But I do not think that will happen. Your uncle’s death was a heart attack. That is true and there is nothing to suggest otherwise, so why would the police pursue it?
I’m sure you will never need to use it, but it is your insurance. Your “get out of jail” card, so to speak.
Burn this first letter now, then place the other letter and key in a fireproof safe.
Your friend,
Debra
Beneath the typed portion of the first page, Debra had continued in shaky, barely legible handwriting. Clearly she had added this right after our meeting on the patio.
I’m so sorry, Katy. You asked me about the others and I couldn’t lie to you. Please know they didn’t suffer. But now I’m worried that by you knowing everything I have done, you could be considered culpable. Not just for your uncle’s death, but for all of them.
I dropped the letter on my lap, dumbfounded. Oh my God. How could I have not thought of that? She’s right. In the eyes of the law, by withholding information, I am now involved in—how many did she say? Eighteen, maybe twenty murders. Twenty-one, if you count Debra’s suicide.
My heart was pumping so hard I thought I’d keel over dead, right there in the grass. And be found holding the damning evidence. This wasn’t good. I picked up the letter and tried to focus on the words.
So now that confession letter is even more important to you.
I read the first page several more times, then took it in the kitchen and burned it in the sink, flushing the remains down the garbage disposal, then read the second page.
To Whom It May Concern:
I have asked Katy McKenna to safeguard my safety deposit key, to be used at her sole discretion. She does not know the contents of my box. If there is ever a time that she deems it necessary to open the box, she must have a witness present and she is not to open the sealed document inside. It is to be given to the District Attorney.
Debra Ann Williams
Box #701
Santa Lucia Central Coast Bank
Santa Lucia, CA
I placed the letter and key in my underwear drawer, hidden beneath a pile of panties. Then grabbed my purse and dashed to Office Max and lugged home the biggest fire safe they had. After locking the letter and key inside, I stashed it in the back of my closet.
Was it just yesterday that I thought this was all behind me? It will never be all behind me. I will always be involved in a murder. No, make that murders, although I prefer the term that Debra used. Mercy coups de grâce.
No matter how you frost it, I am now a criminal in the eyes of the law. If the truth ever comes to light, I could be facing serious prison time. That’s not something you can just blow off. But I have to learn to live with it and get on with my life. And I will.
Epilogue
BETTER DEAD THAN WED
THURSDAY • SEPTEMBER 26
Posted by Katy McKenna
Ruby and I were sharing tapas and a bottle of Chamisal Stainless Chardonnay at a new Vietnamese-French fusion restaurant in town. The Green Door. Very swanky. Thank goodness she was picking up the tab.
“So. What’s the latest on Josh? Every time I run into him at the office, he asks about you. When are you two going out?
“Well, Granny. He’s never asked me.”
“What’s that go to do with the price of tea in China? It’s the twenty-first century. You can ask him out.”
“I’m not comfortable doing that. Besides, he’s not my type.”
“Oh puh-leeze! He’s everyone’s type.”
“I have reassessed my idea of the ideal man.”
“Can’t wait to hear this.”
“I am looking for a sexy-sissy man. A BFF with—”
“I know. Benefits. And I have just the man. Duke.”
I groaned like a drama queen. “Duke, the Dial-a-Ride guy?”
“You promised you’d go out with him.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Sweetie. He is perfect for you.”
“Is he in touch with his feminine side? Because I am so done with hunky, macho men.”
“Honey, I thought he was gay for the longest time.”
I topped off our wineglasses and then chugged a glass of water.
“How old is he?”
“He’s legal.” She smirked. “I don’t know. Maybe mid to late thirties.”
“Is he in good shape?” Just because I’m done with hunky, doesn’t mean I’m into chunky.
“Mmmm. He could lose a few pounds. All that sitting on the job. Not to mention the goodies the gals ply him with.”
I could stand to lose a few pounds, too. But regardless of my current shape, I prefer to date a guy with a six-pack not a keg. Does that make me shallow?
“Is he handsome?”
“Mmm. More like nerdy-cute.”
Techie or Star Trekkie? “Hair?”
“Most of it.”
“Tall?”
“You’ll need to wear flats.”
“So here’s the Duke rundown according to you, Ruby. He’s pudgy, nerdy, balding, and height challenged.”
“Did I mention he’s English?” said Ruby.
Oooo. I do like an English accent.
Afterword
BETTER DEAD THAN WED
Dear Readers,
Much of what I write is drawn from my life. The good, the bad, the sad, the weird, and the funny.
The bill-collection episode really happened, even though to this day, so many years later, I can’t believe I had the nerve to do it. Or that my friends allowed me to employ their kids.
It was the late eighties, and I lived in Anchorage with my husband and two little boys. The economy had slipped into a deep recession and businesses and banks were shutting down right and left.
Like Katy, I was a freelance graphic artist working out of my home. A large car dealership owed me $1500, and they flat out told me I wasn’t going to be paid.
I couldn’t afford a collection agency, nor could I afford not to be paid, so I needed to get creative, and hopefully have a little fun doing it—I always like to have a little fun.
It went down pretty much like it did with Katy’s A-Team. I hired my three-year-old, Spencer, and a couple neighborhood kids, Sara and Jonathan. I cannot begin to tell you how embarrassing it was. But within twenty minutes, I had my check.
We had the best ice-cream party ever!
Respectfully yours,
Pamela
P.S. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a comment at:
Better Dead Than Wed
Coins and Cadavers
The Murder Blog Mysteries #3
Copyright© 2017 by Pamela Frost Dennis
All rights reserved
ISBN-10: 149537159X
ISBN-13: 978-1495371592
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of the book without permission of the author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2017
For permission requests: [email protected]
Coins and Cadavers Contents
Welcome to My Blog
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 52
