Murder Is Where the Heart Is

by Maddie Cochere

  Her argument was compelling. “They have enough to put him on trial, don’t they?” I asked. “A jury would probably convict him, too.”

  “I think they would,” she said. “Sergeant Rorski has already approved spending money to send the gun to Pittsburgh to be tested for prints and to get a ballistics report.”

  I flinched knowing my prints were all over the gun. Hopefully, the murderer’s were on top of mine.

  “Do they know who the model was?” I asked.

  “His name is Vic Cabrillo, and he wasn’t a model, he was a professional wrestler with an independent team out of Indianapolis. His family has already been notified.”

  “How did Bailey hook up with a wrestler?”

  “I have no idea.”

  We lapsed into a few moments of silence. I changed the subject.

  “Have you found out any more about Brick Brack?”

  “I’m surprised they’re still holding him. All they have is a statement from another cab driver who overheard a fight between Kate and Brick. He thought she was seeing someone else behind his back. He said if he found out it was true, he was going to kill her.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If I was put in jail for every time I said I wanted to kill Alan, I’d never see my freedom again.”

  “I’m guessing his lawyer will have him released soon,” Jackie said.

  “They’re going to be back to square one on that case, aren’t they?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “I’ll talk with Arnie in the morning and see what he knows. Call me if you find out anything else.”

  She agreed to keep me posted. I went back to my pizza and took a big bite that pulled off most of the cheese and toppings with it.

  The red phone rang.

  I chewed fast and tried to swallow faster as I picked up the handset.

  “Two Sisters and a Journalist. Jo Ravens speaking.”

  The words came out, but the semi-stuck pizza in my throat gave my voice a muffled, almost alien-like sound.

  “Jo? Is that you?”

  I grabbed my beer and took a swig.

  “Sorry. I had something in my throat.”

  “Are you ok?” Glenn asked.

  I rolled my eyes at the question.

  “I'm fine. No problems here. I'm watching television and eating a pizza.”

  “I'm sorry you had to see that today. I know it's a lot harder to handle when it's family.”

  “Bailey and her nude weren't family, Glenn,” I said dryly.

  “Not technically, but come on. Surely you must have had some reaction since Alan's your ex-husband.”

  Why was he pressing this? I didn't want to talk about how I was feeling.

  “No. I'm fine. I don't think he committed the murders, and I'm going to figure out who did.”

  “Not on this one you're not,” he said with authority. “If the gun wasn't wiped, you said yourself that your prints are on it. If Alan's aren't, then you're going to be the next suspect.”

  Now he was just being melodramatic.

  “That's absurd. I called Sergeant Rorski as soon as I found the bodies. Everyone knows I wouldn't commit a murder. I'm in the business of catching murderers.”

  He surprised me when he raised his voice.

  “Jo, listen to me. You're not in the business of catching murderers, and this might get real bad for you real fast if you don’t face reality. Your own statement puts you in the house at the time of the murders. Bailey is your ex-husband's new wife, and whether you meant to be snarky or not, your description of her breasts in your report paints you as the jealous ex-wife. Add all that to the prints on the gun, and every jury in the country would send you to prison for life.”

  I still thought he was being melodramatic, but my mouth was suddenly dry, and the words felt forced when I said, “That’s just silly. Why would I kill the model?”

  The exasperation in his voice was evident. “Because he would have been a witness.”

  I became defensive and raised my own voice. “Now you're the one who's not being realistic. If I wanted to kill Bailey, I wouldn't have done it in front of a witness.”

  Neither of us spoke. In my mind, I could see how this looked bad for me, but my heart wondered if Glenn actually thought I had just murdered two people?

  “Do you believe me that I didn't do this?”

  His voice was soft. “I believe you, Jo, but I can’t help being worried for you.”

  I appreciated his response, but I was irritated and wanted to get off the phone.

  “Are you still coming to Mama's for dinner Wednesday night?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I'll bring along a six pack of beer for her.”

  I managed a smile. Mama adored him, and the beer would move him up yet another notch in her eyes.

  “I'll meet you there at six o'clock,” he said.

  Back on the sofa, I stared at the pizza I was no longer interested in consuming.

  There was a knock on the front door. Before I could get up, the door burst open and Pepper rushed in. She was crying.

  “Are you ok?” she asked.

  I pointed to the pizza and the television and said, “I'm fine. No problems here.”

  “Jackie called and told me what happened today. Why didn't you call me? She said I should check on you. Poor Alan. How must he feel to find out someone murdered his wife and that guy she was painting? Were they really naked?”

  I moved over and motioned for her to sit down beside me. I launched into the entire story for her while she consumed three slices of pizza. Telling her about my conversation with Glenn put a stop to her binge eating when she started crying again.

  “This is horrible,” she wailed. “What are you going to do? You can't go to prison for the rest of your life.”

  I got up and grabbed a box of tissues for her.

  “I'm not going to jail. I didn't kill anyone, and we're going to prove it.”

  “How,” she asked.

  “I don't know, but the ballistics report won't be back for a couple of days, so we have some time to figure this out. You're in with me, right?”

  She blew her nose loudly and nodded her head.

  “All right,” I said. “Go home and get some sleep.”

  She was still weepy when she went out the door, but I knew she was calmer and more than willing to help solve the murders.

  I sat back down on the sofa and contemplated what to do with the pizza. Put it in the refrigerator or save myself from a middle-of-the-night raid and throw it in the trash?

  The red phone rang again. The only person left to call was Mama. The last thing I needed tonight was Mama grilling me about the murders.

  I grabbed the handset and asked curtly, “What?”

  There was no response. I asked again, louder this time, “What?”

  A timid voice came over the line. “Is this Two Sisters and a Journalist?”

  Moose knockers! What else could go wrong today? I knew better than to answer the red phone with anything other than a professional attitude.

  “I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else. This is Two Sisters and a Journalist. I’m Jo Ravens. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Clara Bartoli. Someone stole my dog. Do you think you could find him for me?”

  Even though there were three murders to be solved right now, insurance fraud, infidelity cases, and missing pets were what were paying the bills. Running around looking for a dog wasn’t appealing whatsoever, but I couldn't tell her no.

  “He's a Scottish Terrier, and his name is Angus McFeely. He was wearing a tartan skirt and hat when he was taken. He's very popular in our neighborhood, but I never dreamed someone would steal him.”

  After taking her information and promising I would give her dog my full attention, I crashed back onto the sofa and tried to concentrate on the television show.

  It didn’t take long before my head was back against the sofa and my mouth was hanging open. I couldn’t stay awake. My snoring woke me a
few times, but I was too tired to get up and go upstairs to bed.

  Another knock at the door forced me back to consciousness. I dragged myself off the sofa and opened the door. Alan strode into the room.

  I was shocked to see him, and having him back in the house was surreal. “How did you get out of jail?”

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Jo,” he said. “My attorney posted bail for me.”

  Without an invitation, he sat down in his usual spot on the sofa. He immediately helped himself to a slice of pizza and had half of it eaten in a matter of seconds.

  “I’m starved,” he said.

  Something wasn’t right. I believed he didn’t murder his wife, but I would have thought he’d be more upset that someone did. I asked him the question of the evening.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I raised my voice. “Your wife was just murdered, and they think you murdered her. How can you be so calm about this?

  “My prints aren’t going to be on that gun. They can’t pin this on me. Someone murdering Bailey was a stroke of good luck. She was a conniving whore.” He reached for another slice of pizza.

  My mouth hung open. This was not the man I had been married to. He was never as cold-hearted as this.

  I went to the kitchen and grabbed two cold beers. I handed one to Alan before plopping into my comfy chair with the other.

  “How can you talk like that? I thought you two had the perfect marriage.”

  “No marriage is perfect, Jo. You should know that. When I’m out of town, Bailey sleeps with anything that walks. She’s already seen a lawyer about a divorce. She told me she was going to take me for everything I had.” He shook his head, and a sly grin spread across his face. “I guess her plans have been foiled.”

  I excused myself and went upstairs. I wanted a few moments to myself. My perception of Alan and Bailey’s marriage had been entirely wrong. I splashed water on my face before brushing my hair.

  I stopped mid-stroke. What was I doing? Was I trying to look my best for him? That would be absurd. I messed my hair up a little. Now I looked sexy. I brushed my hair again.

  The murder room beckoned to me. I walked down the hall and closed the door. I didn’t want Alan coming upstairs and snooping in the room.

  When I returned to the living room, Alan was surfing channels on television while eating the piece of cheesecake I had ordered. The pizza box was empty.

  “Great cheesecake, Jo. Where’d you get this?”

  I ignored him and sat down in the comfy chair again.

  “Aren’t you worried that you’ll be accused of murdering Bailey so you wouldn’t have to give her anything in a divorce?”

  “I’m not worried about anything, because I didn’t do it. The police will figure it out.”

  “Where did the gun come from?” I asked.

  “No idea. I don’t own any guns. The murderer probably brought it with him.”

  It never occurred to me that Alan wouldn’t know all the details of what happened. I didn’t intend to fill him in on my interaction with the weapon, or how I implicated him in the murders.

  “What are you going to do? Are you going back to the house?” I asked.

  “No. I’m staying here.”

  My mouth fell open again. “You can’t stay here. It’s not appropriate, and what will people think?”

  “I don’t care what people think. I don’t have anywhere to go. I can’t go back to the house yet, and I’m comfortable here. I’ll sleep in the television room upstairs.”

  “You can stay in the hotel downtown.”

  “C’mon, Jo. Let me stay. For old time’s sake. I might put on a good front, but this has all been really upsetting. It will help to be around a friendly face and familiar surroundings.”

  A friendly face. Ha! If he only knew how many horrible thoughts I’d had about him, he would have been afraid to come here. However, I was feeling a measure of sympathy for him.

  “You can stay for a couple of days. The room upstairs isn’t a television room any more. You’ll have to sleep in the guest bedroom.”

  I left him on the sofa to watch television. I dragged myself up to bed. It had been a long day.

  Chapter Eight

  “Punkard. P-u-n-k-a-r-d.” He looked under each of the tiles. “That’s eight points for the P, so that makes eighteen points for the word, times three for the triple word score makes forty-two points. Another fifty for using all my tiles, and that makes a total word score of ninety-two.” He threw his head back and laughed. “You won’t catch me now.”

  “Punkard’s not a word.” I said.

  “It most certainly is. It’s another word for a punk. Just like a drunk is a drunkard, a punk is a punkard. Get the dictionary.”

  I didn’t believe him, but challenging the word wasn’t worth the effort to get up and find the heavy book.

  We were pretty evenly matched when it came to playing Scrabble. Winning usually came down to the luck of the draw though, and I knew I wasn’t going to win this one. It was hard to do much with seven one-point tiles on your rack.

  The game was over after a few more words. Alan came around the table and put his hand out – just like old times. I slipped my hand into his and followed him into the living room. We sat on the sofa and started in on a good old-fashioned makeout session.

  His hands made their way under my shirt. My bra was instantly undone. I never understood how he could unhook my bra so quickly without my feeling it. It was a ninja move. His hands were under my bra.

  “This is nice Jo, isn’t it?”

  Alan’s voice woke me. It took a few groggy moments to realize the Scrabble playing and foreplay had been a dream, but Alan in my bed with his hands under my pajama top wasn’t.

  I shoved him hard. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I jumped out of bed, turned on the lamp, and stood glaring at him with my hands on my hips.

  He sat up and deliberately let the sheet covering him fall to the floor. He was naked.

  He held back laughter and feigned innocence. “What? I thought we could have a little fun – for old time’s sake. I’ve missed you.”

  I forced myself to look away from his manhood. Manhood I used to enjoy.

  “Well I haven’t missed you. And in case you didn’t know, I’m dating a police officer. I’m not interested in revisiting my past with you.”

  I ignored his laughter and marched into the bathroom. It was six o’clock. There was no going back to sleep now. I locked the door and took a shower.

  I was angry at my conflicting emotions. In my day-to-day activities, I felt completely over Alan. However, he did make his way into my dreams. In them, we were always doing mundane things – like playing scrabble, watching television, or reading. It was in my dreams that I realized I still loved him on some level, but I had never had sexual dreams about him before. If he hadn’t had his hands all over my breasts, I probably wouldn’t have dreamt about him now. With Bailey no longer in his life, did I want him back?

  Standing under cold water for a few minutes put a stop to my confusion. When I dressed and made my way to the kitchen, Alan was right at home cooking breakfast. He was preparing a feast of bacon, eggs, pancakes, toast, and bowls of fruit.

  “Where did the food come from?” I asked. There was no way I kept food like this in the house.

  “My place. I ran over and grabbed some things last night after you went to bed.”

  “Are you sure you’re allowed to take things out of your house? Isn’t it a crime scene?”

  “No one told me to stay out of it, and there’s no police tape.” He pulled a key out of his pocket. “As a matter of fact, I want you to do your investigator thing and go back over to my house and take a look around. My attorney isn’t doing anything for me, and I know the Buxley police don’t intend to do anything until they get the ballistics report back. Maybe you can find something that will help.”
r />   Searching through Alan’s house sounded like delicious fun. I’d have to ask Pepper to come along to help. She would have a cow if I left her out of an adventure like this.

  “That’s a good idea,” I told him. “I charge by the hour.”

  “Family discount?”

  “No. Full rate,” I said firmly. “You can afford it.”

  He flipped two pancakes in the air at the same time. They came down and landed perfectly on the griddle pan. Flipping pancakes was just one of the things he used to do that put a smile on my face. I could barely boil water, and I had always enjoyed watching him cook. He was a showoff in the kitchen.

  I grabbed a pen and notebook out of a kitchen drawer and sat down at the counter. “What else can you tell me? Who were Bailey’s friends? Where did she take art classes? Did she have any other hobbies?”

  He began plating our food. “She took private art classes from Mike Shay. His studio is downtown over the post office. I suspect she met Vicious through him.”

  “Who’s Vicious?”

  “Vicious Vic Cabrillo. The wrestler she was painting out by the pool. Mike Shay used to wrestle professionally, but a back injury ended his career. Bailey said he was a high school art teacher for a while until he opened a studio to give lessons.”

  “Good. This is good. I can start with Mike. Who else?”

  “She took yoga classes at the Y twice a week with her one and only friend, Gretchen Grayson. Do you know her? She probably graduated high school about the same time you did.”

  Oh, I knew Gretchen all right. She was one of the rich girls in school and had been a total snob. She would have never been caught talking to someone like me. I wasn’t looking forward to questioning her.

  “Do you know where she lives?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. She’s been married and divorced so many times, I don’t know where she’s living now. Probably over in Patterson. Buxley is too lowbrow for her.” I jotted the information down. “And the only other hobby Bailey had was sleeping around. I think she thought I didn’t know, but I heard plenty of stories from the guys I golfed with. There were telltale signs at the house, too. Sometimes I’d find pieces of clothing that weren’t mine.”