Marriage Is Pure Murder

by Staci McLaughlin

  “No, I’ve kept writing, but Mom thought it was silly, so I’d work late at night after she went to bed. I didn’t want to cause any arguments.” A shadow crossed her face, and her eyes narrowed. “Heaven forbid I do something my mother didn’t approve of.”

  In one smooth motion, Violet pulled the pruning shears out of her apron pocket and snipped a rosebud off its stem. It plunged to the floor.

  “You can’t always do what your mom wanted,” I said. “You are an adult.”

  She looked at me, and I saw a coldness in her expression that sent a chill down my spine. “I tried telling that to my mom, not that she ever listened. She expected me to do her bidding all the time with no complaints.” Her eyes took on a glazed look, and she snipped the head off another rose. “Violet, deliver these flowers.” Snip. “Violet, sweep the floor.” Snip. “Violet, forget about your stupid writing. You’ll never succeed anyway.” Snip.

  I stared at the pile of rose buds on the floor. “You can make your own decisions,” I said soothingly, as if trying to calm a cornered animal. “Your mom isn’t here to tell you what to do anymore.”

  “But think of the years I’ve wasted,” she said. “A newspaper reviewer said I was the next Eugene O’Neill. I should have focused on my second play, rather than shoving all the drafts to the back of a drawer. Now I’ve missed my chance to keep the momentum rolling and make a name for myself.”

  I took a step back, alarmed by the gleam in her eye. “It’s never too late. Surely there will be other chances.”

  “I don’t know that for sure.” She turned her attention to a fall floral arrangement of carnations, roses, and day lilies, attacking the bouquet in a series of savage snips. Bits of stems and blooms showered down like rain. I could only watch in stunned silence, wondering what had happened to the docile Violet I was so familiar with.

  A sudden rush of street noise behind me announced that someone had opened the door. Violet looked up and the wild look in her eye winked out like a cell phone screen when the battery dies. I turned to see an elderly woman with a hunched back shuffle into the store.

  I swiveled back toward Violet. She slid the shears in her pocket and stood there as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “Can I help you?” she asked the woman, offering a polite smile that didn’t hint at the damage she’d done to the flowers only moments before.

  “Don’t let me interrupt.” She raised a gnarled hand toward me. “This young lady was here first.”

  “I was just leaving,” I said. I looked at Violet again, wondering if I should leave this woman alone with her, but the woman was already listing her order while Violet nodded along complacently. Whatever demons had set Violet off were gone.

  With their attention on the order, I pulled open the door and left the flower shop, wondering at Violet’s mental state. Though she’d only been butchering flowers, I’d seen a dark side to her that I’d never imagined. Had Bethany somehow set off Violet before she’d died, and it had resulted in her death? Or was she simply expressing her grief now that Bethany was gone?

  I shook off the thought and reached in my pocket for my car keys at the same time I heard Mom calling my name. I looked around until I saw her waving at me from across the street. Checking for traffic, I trotted over, the incident with Violet already fading as Mom gave me a quick hug in greeting.

  “Hi, Mom. Working today?”

  “Only for another hour, but I’m glad I saw you. I was going to give you a call later.”

  “What about?” I asked.

  She tilted her head toward the Get the Scoop storefront. “I went in for ice cream yesterday evening and had a chance to talk to Mitch.”

  I held up my hand. “Wait. You’re not playing detective without me, are you?”

  Mom opened her eyes wide, obviously trying to look innocent. “Would I do a thing like that?” she asked. “I merely felt like a scoop of vanilla. If Mitch happened to be there, and felt like talking to me, maybe about Bethany’s murder, it would only be polite to listen to the man, wouldn’t it?”

  I tried to suppress a smile but failed. “I wouldn’t want you to be rude. Did Mitch have anything to say, maybe about Bethany’s murder?” I added with a wink.

  Her eyes lit up. “My goodness, yes. I didn’t get all the details, but he said he was working on getting a bank loan and talking to contractors. Whatever he’s planning must be a big project. They’ll have to tear down a wall and redecorate everything and put in all sorts of counters and fixtures and such. The list went on and on.”

  “These changes must be for the auto parts store he wants to buy. Sounds like he’ll have to practically gut the place.”

  “He didn’t mention where he was making these changes, but I can ask him at the symphony next week.” She glanced up at the sky, as if thinking. “Of course, that seems so far away. Maybe I should ask him to dinner.”

  She seemed to be talking more to herself than to me, but I still reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “Hang on a second. What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a performance down in Santa Rosa next week. I happened to mention how much I like the symphony, and Mitch asked if I’d like to go. But if we want to find Bethany’s killer, we need information now, not next week. That’s why I should ask him out before then.”

  I stared at my mother. Had she gone mad?

  “What?” she asked, all innocence.

  “After all the times you’ve lectured me to be careful, you’re actually considering asking a potential killer out on a date?” My voice reached a pitch I didn’t know it could. “I told you the other day that it’s too dangerous for you to see Mitch alone.”

  Mom blushed in full force. “I guess I got carried away. I never realized how much fun being a detective could be, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t believe for a second that Mitch is the killer. Frankly, I enjoy the man’s company, whether it’s at the symphony or having dinner together.”

  My mom was starting to sound like Ashlee, putting her love life before her safety. I tried to reason with her. “Let’s not forget someone has died here. While you might be confident he didn’t kill Bethany, I’m not so sure. If you start asking too many questions, he’ll wonder what you’re up to.” How many times had Mom given me the exact same lecture about pretending to be a detective? “Promise me you won’t ask him out. I’m not thrilled you’re going to Santa Rosa with him either.”

  “Fine, I won’t ask him to dinner. If the police don’t figure out who killed Bethany in the next few days, I’ll skip the symphony, too, even if Mitch is a handsome and charming man.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate the sacrifice. With any luck, the cops will catch the killer, it won’t be Mitch, and you and he can have a lovely time together.”

  A woman came out of the clothing store, and Mom watched her walk past. “I’d better get back to work. I didn’t expect to talk to you for so long.”

  “Thanks for letting me know what you found out from Mitch.”

  Before she turned away, she asked, “Do you have any last-minute wedding tasks you need help with? I’m not working tomorrow, so I’m available.”

  “I only need to put together the wedding favors, which won’t take any time at all. Thanks anyway.”

  “Call if you think of anything else or need help with the favors.”

  I nodded my thanks and then ran back across the street before an approaching car could flatten me. I gave Mom a little wave and got in my car.

  Once inside my Honda, I sagged against the seat, surprisingly tired. I’d told Mom that I didn’t need any help for the wedding, but clearly planning for the big day and worrying about being involved in Bethany’s murder were starting to take their toll. The workday was only half over, and I already felt ready to call it quits.

  I started up the car and headed toward the Daily Grind. What I needed was a pick-me-up, one with lots of caffeine and sugar. After all, I’d eaten Zennia’s healthy, vegetable-filled sandwich. O
ne little frappé wouldn’t hurt.

  On the short drive, I shook my head at my mom’s antics and then mulled over my conversation with Violet. I felt sorry for her. Flowers clearly held no interest for her. The only time I’d seen her animated was when she’d been talking about writing.

  Had Bethany insisted Violet keep working at the shop, causing her to bottle up a slow-simmering rage? Had Violet finally blown her top and killed the one person she believed was standing in the way of her writing career?

  Chapter 20

  The inside of the Daily Grind was a mix of new technology and old country. Behind the counter, shiny stainless-steel espresso machines hissed and steamed, while in the pick-up area, jars of locally made jams and honeys crowded for shelf space on a display case near the newspaper stand.

  I got in line behind a man in khaki pants and a polo shirt who was talking into his Bluetooth earpiece. He mentioned toeing the line, leveraging best practices, getting the manager’s buy-in, and other business jargon that meant little. I tuned him out and thought about Violet again.

  She had to be in her early thirties, if not older. Would a woman that age allow her mother to dictate her career choice? It seemed like Violet had, but at what expense? She clearly held plenty of resentment toward her mom. Why not cut the cord and pursue her dream?

  Maybe Violet felt indebted to her mother since Bethany had created a position at the flower shop after Violet had been laid off from her job. Or maybe Violet wasn’t capable of making such a monumental decision on her own and allowed her mom to pressure her into staying, even if she wasn’t entirely happy with the decision.

  Then again, everyone had their breaking point. Maybe Violet had reached hers. Bethany may have tried to control Violet one too many times, and Violet had snatched the gun from the back room and shot her.

  But would Violet be able to hide her guilt from the police? I knew firsthand how intimidating Detective Palmer could be during questioning. I imagined Violet would crack under the pressure.

  The businessman in front of me placed his order and moved to the side. I stowed my thoughts for later and stepped up to the counter to order a mint chocolate chip frappé. In an effort to make it a little healthier, I told the barista to hold the whipped cream.

  After I’d paid for my drink, I moved to the pick-up area and perused the assortment of local food items, noting that they’d added a selection of caramel sauces since my last visit. The barista called my name, and I retrieved my frappé. I stuck a straw in my cup and was heading for the exit when a figure in the far corner of the coffeehouse caught my eye.

  A woman in a black pantsuit sat at a small table, with a briefcase at her feet. Even with her head bowed and her long black hair partially blocking her face, she looked familiar. It also looked like she was crying, if her shaking shoulders were any indication. As I watched, she brushed the hair away from her face, exposing her profile, and my sense that I knew her from somewhere grew. I racked my brain as to where I might have met her, but the information stayed just out of reach.

  The woman ran her fingers under her eyes, then rose with a furtive glance, hurried over to the cart that held a collection of creamers, sugars, and stirrers, and pulled out a handful of napkins. She glanced at me for a second before dropping her gaze, but that second was all it took for me to remember where I’d met her, or at least seen her.

  It was in the back parking lot of the office complex where she presumably worked. The woman was Carter’s mistress.

  She hurried back to the table, holding the napkins to shade her eyes, as if trying to cover her crying. She needn’t have worried. Everyone was too busy staring at their smartphones or talking to their companions to notice.

  She sat back down at her table, and I made my way over. As I got near, she looked up at me, new tears fresh on her cheeks. Based on what little I’d seen of her, I’d assumed she was quite young, but up close, I could see the start of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and detectable lines around her mouth.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said. “But I noticed you seem upset. Are you all right?”

  She threw down the sodden napkin she’d been clutching. “I’m fine,” she said. The single sob that slipped out begged to differ.

  I sat down across from her, torn between finding out information about Carter and helping her with whatever was causing her distress. “You don’t seem fine. Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?”

  She shook her head. “No, I have no one.”

  A melodramatic exaggeration if I’d ever heard one. “I’ve heard talking to strangers is easier than talking to your closest friends,” I offered. Someone, somewhere, had told me that once, although I had no idea if it was actually true.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” She plucked a fresh napkin from the small pile before her. “I’ve been dumped.”

  I stared at her. Carter had dumped her? When? Why? I eased back on the seat and tried to think of a neutral comment. I didn’t want her to realize I already knew about her and Carter. “It’s always tough when a relationship ends, especially if you weren’t expecting it.”

  She dabbed at her eyes. “I told myself not to get too attached. I’m certainly old enough to know better. Plus, more than one of my friends has been in this exact same situation, so I know how it usually ends.”

  “What situation’s that?”

  “Women letting their boyfriends string them along for years while promising to leave their wives, when, of course, they never do. Yet, here I am, acting like a total schmuck and doing the opposite of what I tell my friends to do. This is the last time I date a married man.”

  I couldn’t believe this woman was openly admitting to her affair with Carter, without a hint of remorse. Maybe that theory about talking to strangers was true after all.

  “If you already knew the outcome, why didn’t you drop him?” I asked.

  She set her mouth in a hard line. “Because our relationship was different.”

  I blinked. Surely every woman who had dated a married man felt their relationship was different.

  Carter’s girlfriend must have noticed my doubts. “Well, it was,” she said in a defensive tone.

  “Of course,” I said, not wanting to argue. “Different how, exactly?”

  “He clearly loves me.” She leaned across the table. “Do you realize he’s sent me a dozen red roses every week for months? What other guy does that? And he’s always surprising me at work. And leaving little notes on my car. He even took me to Fort Bragg for a romantic dinner a few weeks ago.”

  Well, sure. He probably didn’t know anyone in Fort Bragg. “Sounds like quite the guy,” I said.

  She tilted her head. “You know, I think you’re right.”

  “That he’s quite the guy?”

  She laughed, making her appear much younger for those few seconds. “No, that talking to a stranger is easier than telling a friend. I do feel better.”

  I held out my hand. “Well, at the risk of not being a stranger anymore, my name’s Dana.”

  She shook my hand. “Phoebe, Phoebe Chan. You’re also right about him being quite the guy.” She played with the strand of pearls around her neck. “I should have realized something was up. He stood me up on Friday night. That’s the first time he’s ever canceled without calling. Maybe his wife had some kind of medical emergency. If she wasn’t so sick, I know everything would be different.”

  I leaned forward. “What’s wrong with his wife?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t like to talk about it. Probably because her situation is so sad.”

  Or maybe because she wasn’t really sick.

  “He did tell me that she has to stay in bed all day and almost never leaves the house,” Phoebe said. “It’s some sort of terminal illness. He said she’s taken a turn for the worse and that’s why we can’t see each other anymore.” She broke into fresh sobs.

  I glanced around the coffee shop to see if anyone had noticed. An older gentleman in a suit g
ave me a sympathetic smile.

  I turned back to Phoebe. “Why would her declining health force you to break up?”

  She wiped her eyes with a napkin. “He said the guilt was too much. Every time he looks at his wife withering away, he worries that she somehow knows about me, and that’s why she’s getting sicker.”

  More likely Carter had grown tired of his girlfriend and wanted an easy way to dump her. Who could argue with a story about a dying wife?

  “One of his best qualities is how dedicated he is to her,” Phoebe said, “even if she treats him badly. He wouldn’t dream of abandoning her when she’s so ill. He takes his wedding vows seriously.”

  I used all my willpower not to gag on my frappé. Apparently the irony of her comments completely escaped her. “His wife doesn’t treat him well?” I asked.

  “She’s just so demanding. The poor man works all day and then has to come home and practically be her servant. But he does it anyway, without a word of complaint, I’m sure.” Phoebe gave a wistful smile. “There I go again, blathering on about what a great guy he is. I sound like some silly schoolgirl.” She swept her long dark hair over her shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve accepted that he doesn’t want to see me anymore.” Her face grew dark. “Especially after everything I’ve done for him.”

  “Like what?” I sipped my drink, feeling as if I was caught up in a soap opera.

  “I kept our little secret, for one thing,” she said. “I never objected when he brought takeout to my apartment instead of wining and dining me at a nice restaurant. That’s why the dinner in Fort Bragg was so special.” She sighed, no doubt remembering the evening.

  “What a trooper,” I said dryly, but she didn’t seem to notice my tone.

  “That’s only the beginning. I made sure I was available whenever he called at the last minute.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Do you have any idea how many nights I sat home hoping he’d call? And he just dumps me like this?” Her voice got louder. “I’m a professional woman. I deserve better!”

  Uh-oh. Maybe Carter’s plan to escape the relationship for the good of his sick wife wasn’t such a smart one after all. “Are you going to tell his wife?” I asked.