The Magic of Murder

by Susan Lynn Solomon

  “Sorry,” I said. “Stomach’s grumbling.”

  It was no wonder. I hadn’t eaten all day. The doctor had been right when he said the shock I’d suffered would wear off in a few hours. My body had returned to normal. I was hungry. Here’s the funny part, though: while my foot and leg still hurt, I didn’t feel the agonizing pain the doctor had warned me to expect. Rebecca’s herbal remedy actually worked. If I harbored any doubts about the effectiveness of Sarah Goode’s herbal mixtures—or Rebecca’s, for that matter—they were gone.

  Roger broke into my thoughts when he announced, “I’m starving. How about if I order some Chinese takeout?”

  “I’m in,” I said.

  “Me too,” Rebecca said. “Order me General Tsao’s Chicken.”

  As he tilted in the chair to pull his cell phone from his pants pocket, Roger said, “I thought all you witches were vegetarians.”

  “I’m not the witch,” Rebecca said and smiled at him. “That’s your buddy’s job.”

  I lifted the cover to look at my bandaged leg. “Seems I’m not very good at the job yet.”

  Roger rolled his eyes.

  ***

  I leaned heavily on my crutches when I hobbled to the kitchen table. Rebecca and Roger wanted me to stay off my feet, so they bickered a bit about which of them would pull out the dishes and flatware. Normally, I’m a purist where Chinese food is concerned, by which I mean I insist on using chopsticks. Not this night, though. I was so hungry, even a fork couldn’t shovel the food into my mouth fast enough.

  It seemed as though Elvira couldn’t eat fast enough, either. Her rear end wiggled as she gulped the Cat Chow from her bowl.

  While we ate, the conversation turned to Jimmy Osborn’s death. As I recall, I led it there. I hoped if I learned the facts the police knew about the murder, with Rebecca’s help I might put an end to the insanity before the rest of my body got fried.

  “In my experience,” Roger said, “the motive for most murders comes down to one thing: passion. Love, hate, a lust for money. Look behind the violence, you’ll find love, hate, or greed.”

  “Where does Jimmy fit into that picture?” I asked.

  “Ah, the Final Jeopardy question.”

  “Can’t see behind your neighbor’s Venetian blinds,” I said.

  Rebecca put down her fork and dabbed her napkin at her lips. “Not in the usual way.” She rose from the table. “More tea, anyone?”

  I lifted my cup.

  Roger covered his cup with his hand. “At this point, I’d even take a hint from what your voodoo chants turn up.”

  “What does Woody think?” I asked. To Rebecca, I explained, “That’s Harry Woodward, Roger’s boss.”

  She nodded.

  Elvira glanced up then returned to her meal.

  Running a hand through his brown locks, Roger said, “I expected Woody to be all over this, a real hound dog. After all, one of his men got killed.”

  “He isn’t?” Rebecca asked.

  “Doesn’t seem to be. It isn’t only me he won’t let work the case, it’s all the guys. He says we’re all too close to it.” Roger rubbed his chin. “It’s like he suspects one of us did it.”

  “Is that possible?” I asked.

  “I know I didn’t. The others? No matter how I try, I can’t see a motive.”

  “Eight bullets in the chest,” I said. “Someone really had it in for Jimmy.”

  “His wife?” Rebecca asked. I supposed she was thinking about the message Marge left on my phone, and believed it sounded like a warning. She didn’t know Marge. The girl I grew up with got queasy when aliens were zapped in sci-fi movies.

  Before I could disabuse her of the idea, Roger said, “Nah, I don’t see it. Jimmy was crazy about her. Told me he was saving up to take a trip to Mexico. A second honeymoon, he said.”

  “So that leaves?” I asked.

  “I’m stumped.” Roger admitted. “If Woody’s working the case, he’s doing it alone and keeping everything very close to the vest. He got a call yesterday and went out for about an hour. That gave me a chance to sneak a peek at his file. Practically nothing in it.”

  Again, Elvira’s head came up from her bowl. She was actually listening to us.

  Surprised at the direction this had taken, I said, “You don’t think Woody might have—?” I couldn’t finish my sentence. From all I knew about him, Harry Woodward walked a line so straight it could be used as a yardstick. Still, sometimes yardsticks got broken.

  Roger thought for a moment. “I wonder,” he said at last. “He’s certainly acting strange.”

  At the mention of strange behavior, I thought of my ex. His behavior was certainly stranger than usual. “How about Kevin?” I said. No need to explain to Rebecca who he was, she’d helped me damage his life. “The firebombs began just after he was here. Oh, and he was also at the book store just before—”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Roger said.

  “And when I think about it, he used to read about the Russian revolution—that’s when those Molotov cocktails were used.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Roger said.

  “What?”

  “Your husband—”

  “Her ex-husband,” Rebecca corrected him.

  “Okay, then, her ex-husband. He didn’t know Jimmy. Why would he want to kill him?”

  As if she wanted to participate in the conversation, Elvira jumped onto my lap. She shoved my plate aside and rested her head on her paws. With her pink eyes focused on Roger, she meowed.

  “I agree,” Rebecca said.

  “With me?” Roger asked.

  “No, with Elvira. Are you sure Kevin didn’t know your partner?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “He told me he was in big trouble. Oh, and he stopped by the Osborns’ house looking for Jimmy. Could Jimmy have been investigating him?”

  “Can’t be. I’d have known if he was. My partner wasn’t a cowboy. He played everything by the book.”

  “So that leaves us with…what?”

  “Harry Woodward,” Rebecca and Roger said in unison.

  “I don’t like it,” Roger added. “No, I don’t like it at all. But as Sherlock Holmes used to say, when you eliminate everything possible, whatever’s left, regardless of how improbable, has to be the answer.”

  Elvira’s head came up and she nodded.

  I didn’t bother to remind Roger and the cat it was Arthur Conan Doyle who put those words in his detective’s mouth.

  We fell silent, each of us pushing food around our plate.

  While I wondered what could possibly have turned Harry Woodward’s white hat black, a heavy fist rapped on my front door. After the last two days, I was so startled I nearly knocked over my chair when I jumped up.

  The hazel of Roger’s eyes turned dark. “Stay where you are!”

  Rebecca gasped at his tone—a sound approximating air rapidly escaping a balloon.

  As if he expected me to argue, he turned in my direction with his face so stiff his cheekbones might soon poke through the skin. He needn’t have worried. A flash of pain shooting from my leg to my brain caused me to fall back on my chair.

  Roger dropped his hand to the service pistol on his waistband as he went to the door. “Yeah?” he said in his roughest tone. “Who is it?”

  I’ve never understood why this is: as soon as you speak about somebody, he shows up.

  “Detective Frey, open the damn door!” Chief Woodward growled.

  I heard the door open. A second later, a scowling Harry Woodward stomped into my kitchen.

  When Roger followed him, he turned abruptly. His words clipped, he demanded, “Have I not made myself crystal clear?”

  Roger’s face turning crimson—from embarrassment at being scolded in front of us or from anger, I couldn’t decide—he said, “About what?”

  Woody pushed close to Roger’s face. In a menacing tone, he said, “You know damn well, what. But in case you don’t, I’ll be clearer. I don’t wa
nt you within twenty miles of the Osborn case.”

  Ready to ask in the nastiest way what Chief Woodward was doing to stop the killer from firebombing my life, I opened my mouth.

  Roger must have sensed my anger. His eyes locked on his boss, he held up a hand. “What makes you think I’m working the case?”

  “You were at Main Street Books this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Breathing hard, Woody glared at him.

  A high-pitched snarl rose from Elvira’s throat.

  I couldn’t stand this any more than the cat could. “He was there because I had a book signing. I asked him to come.”

  Still glaring at Roger, Woody said, “And why would you do that?”

  “First, because he’s my friend. And second, because I was frightened. Someone’s trying to kill me!”

  “It’s a good thing he was there,” Rebecca added. “If he hadn’t been, right now you’d be viewing her body in the morgue.”

  If she thought her words might deflate Chief Harry Woodward, she was wrong. The former marine colonel wasn’t about to have his flame doused by the ice water in her voice.

  “I’ve got men watching Ms. Goode,” he said.

  “Who? It sure as hell isn’t our men.”

  “Never you mind, who.”

  “They’re not doing a very good job of it,” Rebecca said.

  Now I jumped in. “You don’t want Roger working Jimmy’s murder and now you don’t want him looking out for me? Obviously the two cases are connected.” Tears of fear burning my eyes, I started to cry. “Dammit, Woody, whatever you’re doing isn’t enough!”

  “If you’re really doing anything,” Roger said.

  The detective chief’s face turned as crimson as Roger’s. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No one’s working the case but you and you’re parked in your office most of the time. It isn’t just me who’s noticed. All the guys in the squad room are talking about it.”

  I rose unsteadily from my chair and leaned on my crutches. I hardly noticed the way the fabric of my slacks flapped where the nurse had cut the pants leg up to my thigh. My fear tempered the pain once again weakening my leg. “Kevin Reinhart was at my book signing today,” I said. “So was Amy. If the place had gone up in flames, she also would’ve been killed. Don’t you even care about your wife?”

  Elvira was at our feet. She stared up as if she expected what happened next.

  The chief closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it. Perhaps the florescent light caused an illusion, but his face seemed to go pale. “My…wife was there?”

  The argument ended as quickly as it began. In two strides Woody was out of my kitchen, headed for the front door. As he opened it, he stopped and turned back. His face again red, he said, “Don’t make me tell you again, Detective Frey, to stay away from this case. And as for you, Ms. Goode, I haven’t figured out yet where you fit in this, but you better believe I sure as hell will!” His tone bristled like his close-cropped gray hair.

  We stood in stunned silence as the door slammed, and Woody’s car roared out of my driveway.

  When the engine sound faded, Rebecca asked, “What just happened?” She said it so softly, she might have feared Chief Woodward would hear and return to continue bellowing at us.

  Roger was rapidly blinking. “Damned if I know,” he murmured.

  Rebecca glanced at our food as if she had no idea what it was or how it had gotten on my dinette table.

  None of us was hungry any longer.

  I rubbed my hands up and down my slacks, and said, “I’ll clean up.”

  “No, get off that leg,” Rebecca said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Neither of us moved.

  After what felt as if it were five minutes, Roger broke free from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “He’s protecting Amy,” he said.

  “From what?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’m gonna find out.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Don’t!” I said, suddenly more worried about him than about me. “Woody will bounce you off the force.”

  He patted my hand. The chill in his eyes said I wasn’t going to dissuade him.

  “Be careful. Please,” I said.

  Instead of assuring me he would, as he threw on his coat, he said to Rebecca, “I don’t think anything else will happen tonight, but keep the door locked.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, and hobbled on my crutches to the living room where I pulled my keys from my purse. With a little effort, I unhooked the front door key from the others and held it out. “Take this.”

  For the first time since Harry Woodward broke in on us, Roger smiled. “Is this an offer to exchange keys?”

  At another time I might have laughed or blushed. Right then I didn’t do either.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Unintended Consequences

  I was again stretched out on the sofa. The pain that had settled into a dull ache in my right foot and leg had flared again when Harry Woodward burst in on us. In the time since Roger left, Rebecca applied more of the sandalwood, carnation, and rosemary oil she carried in her shoulder bag. I wondered whether she always had this ointment with her, or if she might have played around with candles and chants, and learned I would need it. Whatever the answer, I was glad she had the stuff.

  Magically, the pain is almost gone, I thought as the sting of my injury subsided into dull throbs.

  Not so long ago, I would have said my pain was gone as if by magic, but not anymore. In the past few months, I’d learned there really is more in heaven and on earth than Hamlet’s pal, Horatio, dreamed of in his wildest imaginings.

  “Feeling better?” Rebecca asked as she settled into the wingback chair.

  A sleepy smile on my face, I said, “Like my leg never got burned. That oil you concocted is better than aspirin.”

  A chuckle came from deep in her chest.

  “You really must teach me how to make that ointment. Think it would work for a headache?”

  “Don’t get carried away,” she said. “I have no idea what would happen if you drink it. Might turn you into a spider.” She glanced at the albino cat splayed across my chest. “Or maybe turn you into one of those.”

  Elvira’s head shot up. She glared at Rebecca.

  I pushed the furry head down and assured her, “That’s not an insult, cat. Nothing’s wrong with the life you have.”

  As if to demonstrate how right I was, Elvira rubbed her face with her paws. Then, stretching, she yawned, smacked her lips, and closed her eyes.

  “Being a cat’s all right if you’ve found the person you’re supposed to be with.” Rebecca’s eyes rolled to the left. Tilting her head in the direction of the door through which Roger had left, she added, “Speaking of which…”

  “Uh-uh, don’t get any ideas,” I said. “The Osborns once tried to set me and Roger up. It didn’t take.”

  “What happened?”

  I shoved my body up against the cushions and lifted the hair from my neck. “Nothing. He wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.”

  “Looks to me like he’s ready now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  As if she wondered how I could be so dense, Rebecca sighed. “Oh, come on, Emlyn. Think about the way he fusses over you.”

  I sat up and looked at her through eyes not much wider than slits. “Maybe I’m still not ready.”

  A smug smile grew on her face. “In that case,” she said, “you’d better not turn into a cat. So instead of drinking my oil, how about some wine?”

  “Ummm. That’s a much better idea.” I pointed to the étagère creating a visual break where my living room became a dining area. “Bottom doors. Glasses are on the shelf above.”

  She stooped and pulled a bottle from the wine rack. “How about this merlot?”

  When she held the bottle up, I saw the label. My eyes shot open wide and my breath caught in my throat. The relaxed, sleepy feeling that came with the abatement o
f pain was gone.

  “Something wrong?” Rebecca asked. “Is this a special wine you’re saving?”

  I shook my head so hard it startled Elvira. With a screech, she toppled from my chest to the floor.

  The label depicted green vines growing across a black background and had embossed gold letters. The wine came from Varney Estates, a local vineyard. The same label had been on the bottle someone chucked through my window. Probably also on the bottle that smashed into Main Street Books’ meeting room, though I wasn’t sure. From the shock and pain I’d suffered, I was too far out of it to notice. I didn’t even know if Zack Anaison held onto the bottle and gave it to the cops when they arrived.

  “Roger brought me this wine,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “It was one of three Varney Estates bottles in the basket the Woodwards gave him for Christmas last year.”

  “You don’t think he—” She couldn’t get any more words out.

  “I…I don’t know what to think.”

  I knew how I felt, though. Betrayed. I wanted to crawl into bed and pull my quilt over my head. Jimmy was Roger’s partner. If Jimmy was into something dirty, they would have been in it together. Comrades-in-arms. Best friends. But why would have Roger murdered his friend? I shuddered and thought, Greed, of course, or jealousy—the oldest of motives. Cain killed Abel because of it.

  Yes, jealousy. Jimmy had a perfect marriage, while Roger’s had fallen apart. And the way Jimmy was killed had been cold and professional. That’s just how Detective Roger Frey would have done it. Then he would have come after me because I told him what I suspected while I spoke with Marge Osborn. Yet, now he was acting like my bodyguard. Why? I dropped back against the cushions. Because he wants to find out whether I really know anything, I thought.

  My eyes now completely wet, I groaned, “It could have been Roger.”

  Rebecca carried the bottle to the sofa and sat beside me. “Don’t be so fast in jumping to conclusions.”

  I looked at the front door. As if I saw my neighbor, my friend, standing there, my eyes clouded with tears.

  “I can’t believe Roger would do this to you,” Rebecca said.