Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3)

by Talia Maxwell

  She brushed a pinky against his thigh and Benson moved his knee away. He brought his hands up and put them behind his head, elbows bent, and when he saw the quick flash of disappointment, he stood up instead to pace the room. The distance eased them and Annie pulled on her ear and sighed, waiting for him to say what was on his mind.

  “The sister hires you to look into the case,” he clarified. “And you’ve finally made a connection between the victims…something the police couldn’t do in five years.” That, he admitted, was bigger than a dating column. True crime columns would carry far more weight and obtain a bigger audience. True crime and dating? His mind was spinning.

  “Yes,” Annie said. “Because they have tireless but overworked detectives and we have a Kristy who calls numbers written on fast food bags.” She shrugged as if that was a given. “Look, if every crime had a full-time crew on it and all the available technologies, we’d have far fewer cold cases. But in the meantime, there’s the group. You gonna help?”

  It seemed like such an innocent question, but Benson noticed how eager she was, despite—she’d assume—her own attempts to be subtle.

  “Why don’t you want me to write about the company as a matchmaking company…but you’re perfectly content to throw the old owner of the company to whatever fate happens when the dust clears on the investigation? I don’t get that. One is fun and light. The other is—”

  “Important and purposeful. Meaningful. Impactful. Do you need more synonyms? I’m practically a thesaurus,” she replied.

  He was unsmiling, but he let his eyes twinkle, and he stopped walking.

  “Is that why? Or is it because you’re using the service and you don’t want to stop…should it become a farce? You’re worried I’d ruin it for you?”

  Annie ran her hands through the bottom part of her hair and worked on the tangles. She leaned her head against her couch and stared at the ceiling. “It’s more to do with hoping to meet…hoping to…” she sighed as if she was prepared to be ridiculed by him, and she closed her eyes, “meet someone. And if a journalist is sniffing around and if the whole thing doesn’t feel safe for people to join, then what if I…miss my chance? Linda Remington left Twoly shortly after the murders and the company isn’t hers anymore. You get some parts of this…not the parts I said I wanted to keep for myself.”

  Benson was broken by the emotion in her voice. He walked back over to the couch and sat down. When she opened her eyes, he was right there, and she took a deep breath to steady the rush of tears.

  “You’re so sold on finding a man,” Benson said, not understanding. “Why do you think you need one?”

  “That,” Annie roared upward, suddenly on fire, “is not any of your business. I just didn’t want you to ruin it for me. I think that’s fair.”

  “I don’t know what kind of universe is cruel enough to rob you of a partner or your one true love because some asshole journalist wrote a story about it.”

  “You said one true love in such a tone,” Annie cautioned. Benson’s eyes widened in protest. This girl was practically a stranger and despite how much he was fond of her, he wasn’t quite willing to give up on the dating story. The intersection between sex and murder was too good to pass up.

  “I’m sorry,” Benson replied and nothing else.

  Annie stared at her ceiling and tried to put her fear into words. He waited, patiently, telling himself in advance to be kind and accepting of any fear she communicated, even if it was crazy. But when she said, “I guess…my initial fear came from this idea that maybe…what if one day I’m matched with you and…”

  “Hold up,” Benson interrupted. “You don’t want me writing about you. But you also don’t want to accidentally end up on a date with me? What’s wrong with me?” He tried not to seem hurt and he played it with jokey lightness, but he really wanted to know. He’d thought the evening went well?

  “It’s not you,” she bumbled through an explanation. “It’s not you, exactly. It’s this idea that…I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it. That it would be a waste…that it would be…”

  “A funny story?” Benson offered.

  Annie didn’t agree. “I can’t explain it.”

  “It’s fine. You don’t have to,” he replied and he let her off the hook. Despite her unwillingness to explore her reservations, he thought maybe she was pissed because she liked him, but he wasn’t the level of rich (read: poor) her family was going to require from their investment. He thought in his head in a faux-documentary voice: In the first half of the twenty-first century, dowries often came in the form of matchmaking services, legal degrees, a decade of therapy, plus five years of guaranteed piano lessons.

  Unfortunately, as he let her walk him out to the car, the cool beach wind whistling through a night void of traffic and city noise, he knew there was nothing he could say to change her mind. He didn’t have to change her mind. He didn’t have to include her in his decision at all.

  Benson was going to try Twoly. He would date and he would write. And in every spare moment, he would research the Schubert-Price murders with the Love is Murder Social Club and write about that, too. All the more reason Peggy would sanction a temporary location shift to the coast, he thought as Annie leaned in to give him a hug. He embraced her and her hair smelled like tangerines.

  “I’m sorry if I don’t have the words quite yet to describe my reluctance and I’m sorry and…” she was going to say I’m sorry again, so he was glad she stopped herself. “I use words all day. Sometimes when I get home, I’ve used them up.”

  “I feel that way sometimes,” Benson admitted. “In writing. I’ll use all my best lines early and leave nothing but work at the end.”

  She paused, caught in an amber glow of a street lamp, not yet updated, still old and yellow, a flicker of admiration in her eyes. “I like that,” she said in a near-whisper. “Don’t use all your best lines early or you’ll leave nothing but work at the end. But I like it because it means it’s just harder…not that you quit.”

  “Oh, I don’t quit,” Benson said. He opened up his car door and climbed inside, keeping the door open for a second longer. “I’ll call you about the case. I got the impression we’re the point people on this now…found the connection and now we find a killer?”

  “That’s the hope.”

  “I don’t believe in hope,” Benson said. “I believe in hard work and I believe in fear.”

  “Good,” Annie replied and nodded in a perfunctory way. “We’ll make a good team then. Good night.” And she turned and walked away toward her house, her arms crossed, her head down—Annie against the world.

  The house was as he left it. A pile of clothes in one corner, a Fultano’s Pizza box on the counter, and his computer open and waiting—his work email starting to trickle in, the Slack channel notifications off the charts. Grabbing a slice of cold pizza, Benson called Peggy.

  She answered in one ring.

  “You have a story written already?”

  “No,” he said. “But I’ll write it tonight like I promised. I’m calling because I had another story drop into my lap and I want to know if you’ll let me write both.”

  “I haven’t agreed to let you write the first,” she reminded him.

  “You will,” he said.

  “That alpha male shit doesn’t work with me,” Peggy said.

  “Alpha male? Do you even know me? No, I’m not commanding you….I’m only telling you,” Benson replied, “I’m serious. Once you read the piece, you’ll know. And when you hear the story wrapped up in it, you’ll know. The writer in you will get goosebumps like I did. Don’t worry. Wait. Tomorrow morning, you’ll see.”

  “Ten-thousand-dollars, Benson is not something we can even dream of using for this story,” Peggy reminded him. “You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. I feel compelled to remind you of that.”

  “Give it a fair chance.”

  “When have I ever been unfair? Doubting, sure. Unfair? See you tomorrow m
orning.”

  The writer’s block was intense and the coast had few options for late-night purchases. After exploring every grocery he could find in Cannon Beach, he decided to head into the next town over where the Rite-Aid Pharmacy was 24-hours. The twenty-minute drive up the 101 was peaceful, as he drove in absolute silence.

  At the Pharmacy, he walked the fluorescent aisles, peering at each item, exploring needs and uses for things in both his immediate and long-term future. He bought a new shampoo and conditioner set, a new deck of cards, gummy candy, a pack of gum, and a bottle of cheap red wine.

  Back at home, he sat down to write about Annie with cheap red wine out of the bottle and sugar-dipped gummy hearts spread out on a plate. He channeled everything he had and he wrote and he wrote and he wrote. Buzzed on the wine and the sugar and the thought that it might actually work, Benson felt his muse flow.

  He knew his writing was good.

  He knew the story was worth it.

  He just hoped Peggy would see that, too.

  And at this point, he didn’t care.

  His editor finished the piece, the last word typed as he walked out the door and started his now-routine drive to Portland. She put her phone flat on the desk, her eyes contemplative, amused. The silence stretched on as she tapped her lips, clearly conflicted.

  “It’s a real stunning narrative, I’ll give you that. It wasn’t the Benson tone I was expecting…different than your usual style. So, what are you asking for? Ten-thousand dollars and a chance to date, live at the coast, become the envy of everyone in this office? Can’t happen. But it’s fun to dream.”

  “I’ll pay for it myself,” Benson said and cleared his throat.

  “Wait. What?” Peggy sat up straighter and crossed and uncrossed her legs. “You have that kind of cash?”

  “I have.” It wasn’t necessary to elaborate, but he did. In a weird sort of Millennial moment, his parents gifted him money after his sister’s wedding. They felt that they owed him an equitable gift. Which clued Benson in real quick on how exorbitantly they’d funded a party for a marriage that only lasted three years. His lump sum, however, and clearly the better deal, benefitted from smart investing.

  If he wanted this story and she was going to say no, then he could fund it if he wanted to and it was the only leverage he had.

  “So, then, what’s the catch?” Peggy replied. She pointed at him. “I see the little wheels turning.”

  “I’ve already called the board. They love the stories. The intertwining of the narrative, Murder and Matchmaking. Podcast, serial articles, interactive social media pages…it’s a goldmine. They see and so do I, so here’ the deal. If I do it myself, I keep the profit.”

  “On the company hour?” Peggy tilted her head.

  Benson shrugged. “I’ve got time to take, too. I could easily flex my hours and still accomplish what I need to for the Murder and Matchmaking research after you’ve decided I’ve put in enough face time at the office.”

  “Is that its official name?”

  “It’s catchy.”

  “And what are you writing for me in the meantime?” Peggy asked.

  “Anything,” Benson was confident he could make it work. He could dictate ideas as he drove the hour and a half between Portland and Cannon Beach; he could install a Bluetooth and take calls, too.

  “Why does this seem like a trap?” Peggy asked.

  “Because it’s not one. Because you’re not used to dealing with authenticity. This shit,” he pointed toward her phone where she’d read his story, “that’s real. I’m being real. I want in. I’ll pay for it myself…fund it, pitch it, gain from it.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Peggy nodded. “I get it. I can probably get you a couple grand.”

  “I want full autonomy,” Benson said.

  Peggy stood up and extended her hand. Benson followed suit and shook it as she said, “I predicted that and fine. Fine. You’ve convinced me. I don’t know how, but you did.”

  He clapped once, excited but wary about showing too much excitement too soon. He had permission to explore a story and he was smart enough to understand that wasn’t anything yet—he could come up empty on all accounts and out some capital. It was a risk that seemed worth it.

  Benson sidled up to Nolan and slipped a one-hundred dollar bill toward him with a piece of notebook paper that had two names written down.

  Nolan picked up the cash and wordlessly tucked it into his wallet. Then he looked at the names and sighed. “You must get paid more than me. Cannon Beach Murders, huh?”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “Sure, sure,” Nolan said nodding. “I covered that for the Oregonian five years ago.”

  “That’s convenient,” Benson said, smiling. “So, the sister hired this group to look into it. The Love is Murder Social Club. And those girls have files on these two, but maybe there’s something they missed. Whatever you can find from your usual sources, I’ll take. And buy yourself something for the extra time. You have easy access to your stories from then?”

  “Thanks for thinking of me, moneybags. All my shit from then is archived. Just do a search for my last name and you’ll get the whole series. Detective White was my contact and I’m happy to put you in contact. Case went cold, but those guys never stopped working on it. My memory is shot on that, a million things since then, but I’ll review my notes and see what sticks out. Hey, by the way, word got around fast you picked up the tab on the dating gig because the company isn’t footing the bill…”

  “I bet they got the word out fast about that,” Benson remarked. Nolan sat up and adjusted his stomach and his belt, twisting this way and that. “Tax write-off, you know? I’m not sweating the money.”

  Nolan tapped the pocket where he’d put his wallet. “Yeah, well. I can see that. Here we go…back to these two. Bill Schubert and Missy Price. Strangers on the Beach. That’s what the true crime show about it was called. Man, it’s been a bit since I’ve thought of this case though. You think there’s a connection to your company?”

  “Maybe. You want to be my research guy?”

  “You paying me $50 a pop for the duration? Might be worth considering,” Nolan laughed, old and raspy. He coughed and shook his head. “Kidding. Keep me in the loop. I’ll help when I can.”

  Benson clasped him on the back, excused him to work, and worked his way out of the building. He had an address and a gut instinct; without a care in the world, he put the address into his phone and followed the directions.

  Bill Schubert’s widow lived ten minutes from the magazine offices and before she had time to learn he was coming and dodge him, he thought she should be the first he talked to. Robin Schubert, according to the lowdown from the Social Club, arrived with a lawyer, spoke through a lawyer, and never spoke publicly about her husband’s death. It shook her and their two sons, but she’d already suffered anxiety and she shut down.

  Handle her with kid gloves, Benson told himself, as he drove through town, pulled up to the driveway, parked, and left everything but his phone in the car. No notepad or pen. Just him and a possible recording device. Someone’s car was in the driveway and he heard soft music playing. An older woman spied him from a front-facing kitchen window and he motioned to the door—and in that tango, she didn’t know if he was there to evangelize or sell a product, but her smile was welcoming nonetheless.

  He knew he had to be ruthless to know he was about to shatter that smile by raining on her expectations. She couldn’t just tell him she already had God and knives.

  Benson waited on the welcome mat as the door unlocked several times and then swung wide to reveal Robin, her hair short and gray, long gold earrings hung from her ears, and she wore an apron which Benson thought was cute. He smiled.

  “I’m Benson Douglass,” he said and he stuck out his hand although she wisely declined and waved from afar. He drew back. “I write for Front Street I’m writing about your husband’s passing…”

  Robin’s eyelashes fluttered an
d she turned to stare, really stare, hard, at him, her intensity growing until Benson had to look away, his shame increasing.

  “Good luck, then,” Robin said and she began to close the door, but Benson couldn’t let go of the idea that she knew more than she’d ever told anyone and he stuck his foot into the doorframe, aware of the aggressiveness of the act, hopeful that the ends justified the means.

  The door hit his foot and Robin stumbled back as the door wouldn’t close despite her best effort.

  The woman was scared and Benson couldn’t blame her.

  He had only one card to play and if misused, he knew he could lose everything. Still, there was Bill’s widow, two feet from him and he knew he may never get that chance again. Not fully knowing the consequences, Benson said, “I’m working with Missy Price’s sister and we’ve finally made a tenuous connection between the victims. And I’d like to—”

  “Listen to you. So full of manure. Missy Price’s sister, you said? Tenuous connection? Nothing, you have all sorts of nothing and so do I, ” Robin repeated and nodded her head, keeping her arms steady on the door, ready to shut it in haste. “If you have anything new about this case, take it to the police. And that’s all I’ll say about my husband or his murder.”

  “Linda Remington,” Benson announced. He saw the flicker of recognition, the pause and the hesitancy. “One number. One needle in a haystack.”

  “I don’t know that name,” Robin said. Her face didn’t betray her and for a second, Benson almost believed. “Get your foot out of my way before I call the police.”

  “You do know that name,” Benson answered. He had a card ready and he tucked it above the doorbell, drawing his foot back, he kept his eyes on her. “She owned a matchmaking service. Your husband and Missy talked to her in the days leading up to—”

  With his foot no longer a barrier, the widow shut the door. The deadbolt sounded soon after and her footsteps disappeared into the belly of the house, the music from the kitchen still wafted by. A jazzy and upbeat transition as Benson walked away empty-handed.