Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights

by Susan Johnson

“Well, God almighty. Girlfriend. Someone needs to save you from yourself.” She dried her hands on her hips leaving damp imprints on her tan skirt. “Do you really want a drink that badly? Are you willing to undo the last two years?” She dared me with her gaze boring into me.

  I had promised myself I would do something special with that bottle once I finished my penance. Just knowing the alcohol was close, behind a locked door, tempting me to give in, made me stronger and more determined to finish what I had started in rehab. So many times, I fantasized about pouring the spirits in the Mississippi River in a private ceremony to close that dark chapter.

  I wanted to hang on to my anger, but it was slipping. She had a point that I couldn't dispute. Yes, I wanted a drink. I wanted the pain to go away. Even though I should be proud of the progress I had made over the past twenty-six months, and four days, I wanted peace.

  “I thought you didn't like jail,” she added smacking me at my core. “This won't bring Henry back.” Hard to argue with reason.

  Brooke handed me a glass of ice water. “Drink.”

  “How did you get in?” My door locks automatically. Had I left it open?

  Brooke sat down across from me and said softly, “John was on his way to the office and saw the police cars. He called me to say there was a fire and that police were waiting for verification that the body they found in the rubble was Henry.” Her voice jerked. “I am so very sorry.”

  When I saw her tears, my own came back.

  “You didn't return my calls.” She blinked and then gave me a knowing grin. “Have you eaten anything today?”

  I shook my head, no.

  She poured out two mugs of coffee and zapped them in the microwave. “I saw your car and got worried, so I used the spare key you gave me.” A year ago, when I moved into this place, we exchanged house keys and made a bet as to who would lose theirs first. The odds favored me, but the next week, Brooke locked herself out of her house. Very uncharacteristic for her organized self even though her wardrobe sometimes displayed a haphazard fashion style. But who am I to criticize?

  “By the way, what happened to the hood of your car?”

  I rubbed my back. Not sure what to say, I said, “I sat on it.” A few silent moments passed, and I asked, “How can Henry be dead?”

  “I don't know, sweetie.” When Brooke draped her arm across my shoulders, I gave her a hug. We hung on for a long time.

  “Is that your stomach or mine?”

  Brooke went into caretaker mode, the eldest of four made her skilled at taking over. And soon, we were chewing on buttered toast with orange marmalade. The coffee settled this time. But I could only manage a few bites.

  My phone rang. In no mood to talk to anyone, I left it vibrate across the counter, but Brooke reached for it saying, “It's for you. A St. Paul number.”

  I gave her my best are-you-kidding-me glare which didn't deter her one bit because she answered. Numbers can be spoofed.

  “Jaymie's phone.” After a brief stretch, she said, “She's not taking calls right now. I'll have her call you.”

  The muscles in her face went hard.

  “Who's Suze Davis?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, she seems to know you. And insisted you call her back ASAP.” She held out the phone to me which I took and set back on the counter. I didn't need to talk to strangers.

  “She sounded angry. Maybe even drunk.”

  I searched my memory bank, I still didn't know her.

  “You need to get out of here. Let's go. Grab your hat and coat,” Brooke said tugging at my elbow knowing full well that the forecasted temperature was headed to the mid-eighties.

  5

  “Where are we going?”

  A woman on a mission is like a bulldozer in an open field. Brooke held my front door open and tapped her sandal-clad toe impatiently. “You've got a key to Henry's house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grab it,” she said hustling out.

  “Why?”

  “Tell you on the way.”

  After taking keys off the hook inside my coat closet, I scrambled, as best I could. By the time I caught up, she had the windows down and was starting her BMW.

  “Why you walkin' funny?”

  “I'm not.”

  “Yeah, you are. Stiff. Like you have a heavy bowl of fruit on your head.” She raised her brows and gave me a thin half-smile.

  “Strained my back.”

  “How?”

  “Just twisted the wrong way.” I didn't like the inquisition. “Don't you need to go to work?” I asked settling in the passenger seat and already suspecting the answer. As co-owner of a lawn service business she set her own hours.

  “Sally's handling the shop.” Brooke sped out to the street. “Besides, payroll's not due until next week. I have plenty of time.”

  “I don't think this is a good idea.”

  “You don't even know what my idea is.” Brooke closed the windows and turned the AC fan to high.

  “I can guess.”

  “Well, smarty pants, we'll see about that.”

  I gripped the arm rest. She knew about the project Henry and I were working on. She suspected that his secret recipe, a sure winner, would be coveted by all the players for the Chili Cook-off. In fact, her husband who was on the selection committee that chose the six competing establishments, said he had overheard conversation that the contest would be evened out if Henry were somehow disqualified.

  Her babbling about the proposed new addition to the high school made me wonder if this was avoidance behavior so she didn't have to tell me what we were going to do.

  Soon we were at the entrance to the Twelve Pines community when Brooke said, “I know Henry lives here, um...sorry, lived here, but where, exactly?” The manufactured houses neatly lined the paved streets. Large elm trees offered shade to the single and double-wide homes.

  “Isn't it against the law to go into someone's house when he's not there?”

  Brooke raised her eyebrows and gave me a smirk. I glared back. “No harm in stopping by to pick up your stuff. Right?”

  She was freaking me out. “What stuff?” I had the master copy of his book on my laptop along with the pictures and everything was backed up to a flash drive. Henry had printed copies where he wrote notes for changes he wanted. I didn't have his chili recipe. That he was going to put in at the end, just before we sent it to the printer.

  “Where to?” Brooke asked.

  I considered saying forget it. Let's not. But before my brain connected to my mouth, I said, “Straight ahead, number 51.”

  “What if the police come?”

  Brooke cut the engine. “If anybody asks, tell them that we're here to clean his house.”

  “I haven't done that for over six months.” Amazing how fast the lies came to her.

  “Well then, say Henry's hired you back.” She held out her hand. “Keys, please.”

  “I got'm.”

  My hand was shaking unlike the other times when I had come. It was easier to meet Henry here where we could spread out papers on his dining table. He liked meeting here because we could talk without customers eavesdropping. I wasn't sure how many people knew of Henry's project. My guess, not many. The only person I told was Brooke.

  The place looked clean and smelled a bit stuffy since the air conditioning hadn't kicked on yet. I had no idea exactly what we were looking for and rummaging in Henry's private things gave me the willies.

  “He's got to have his recipe hidden somewhere.”

  “Why not at the cafe?”

  “Too many people around. Someone might steal it.”

  “What if the police find us here?”

  Brooke walked around me. “We'll say we came for his book notes.” She started opening cabinet doors in the kitchen area. She rummaged in the drawers. I doubt she'd find anything where she was searching. “Say you needed them to finish the book.”

  “He's dead. There is no book.”

  “Don't
be a negative Nelly. You can finish it. ... In his honor.”

  A knot formed in my throat as I watched Brooke search. “Look around,” she commanded with a lift of her shoulder sending me toward the hallway that led to Henry's bedroom. The farthest I've ever been down the hallway was the bathroom. But before getting that far, I opened a closet door. The small recess had been converted to a pantry and utility closet. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Bingo!” Brooke yelled drawing me back to the kitchen where she was waving a three-ring notebook. “Recipes.” Her oversized purse easily swallowed the binder.

  “You can't do that.”

  “Well, we're not looking through it here.” She glanced at her wrist watch and then moved to the pile of mail on the table.

  “Let's get out of here,” I said, pleading. At that moment, a loud knock at the door made me jump.

  “Don't open it,” I said, thinking we could pretend no one was home.

  Too late. Brooke had scooted across the room and opened the door without checking who was on the other side.

  “Relax. It's Lee.”

  Brooke stepped back as if inviting company in and stretched her arms out for a hug, and then stopped mid-spread. “Sorry,” she muttered. “You look like this is business.”

  “Brooke?” The man's familiar voice sent a shock wave up my body. I could feel a blush wash over my face, my antiperspirant failing.

  Brooke held the screen door open and said, “Come in.”

  A woman with Buddy Holly-style red glasses followed. “I'm Detective Joelle Sams, this is Detective Lee Hudson.”

  Shut the refrigerator door! Did I hear right?

  The woman looked at me then at Hudson. “You know these ladies?”

  “Shortie here.” He pointed to Brooke. No hint of a smile. “She's the wife of a friend.” Then he looked at me. Brown eyes stabbed at my core. My throat went dry forcing me to put on my best, I'm-not-guilty-of-anything face.

  Brooke broke in. “This is my friend, Jaymie Becker.” Her voice was a tad high pitched. “She's working on a cookbook with Henry.” Her voice caught. “It's almost done. Isn't it?”

  I nodded and tried not to look confused. She knew we'd met hours before. But I hadn't gotten to tell her how the so-called date ended.

  “Jaymie's taken fabulous pictures. Show him.” She pushed against my shoulder almost knocking me over. For a short person, she had leverage. How in the heck could I show pictures that were on my computer at home?

  The lady detective said, “Maybe another time.”

  Detective Hudson, taller than my dad, and tons more handsome, was still dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. Only this time he had on a purple and black tie. I avoided looking at his eyes, the darkest brown eyes I've ever seen that I couldn't get out of my head since Perkins.

  He said, “Shall we all take a seat? We are investigating a possible murder and have some questions.”

  I bet they did.

  Detective Sams took the lead by dragging a kitchen chair to the living room area and soon the four of us sat in a square, Brooke and I on the couch and Detective Hudson in the recliner.

  We settled, though I didn't feel all that settled. Actually, I wanted to tele-transport to a different plane. Beam me up, Scotty! Now please!

  Detective Sams' short brunette hair was the same shade as her linen jacket. Her thick-rimmed red glasses set a striking tone as she peered from Brooke to me and then back to Brooke and finally settled on Hudson as if she was tossing the interrogation ball to him.

  “Miss Becker?” Was there a question riding on that smooth voice? And why did he act as if we hadn't met? “Now explain what you two were doing here?”

  I swallowed the cotton that filled my mouth. “I ...uh ... we came to see if Henry ... uh, left notes for me...” I looked at Brooke for help, but she was checking out her trendy sandals. “For the cookbook.”

  “Did you find any?”

  I shook my head.

  Detective Sams interrupted, “How did you get in?”

  “Oh, Jaymie has a key.”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  Hudson said, “To find you two at the house of a homicide victim is ... at the minimum ... questionable.” He squared his shoulders. Nice, broad shoulders. Even through the sleeves of his jacket, I could see muscles.

  “You said, homicide?” Brooke gasped.

  Tears came to my eyes as I imagined Henry dying in a fire, overcome by smoke. “Why didn't he get out in time?”

  The two detectives shared a knowing glance before Detective Sams said, “Would either of you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

  “No!” echoed off the walls.

  I wiped a tear with my finger.

  They both had pen in hand and were writing in small notebooks. Detective Hudson spoke, I almost missed him asking if we knew of anyone who'd want to harm Henry. “What about competitors?”

  “I don't think so.”

  But then Brooke broke in, “I wouldn't put it past Sheply.”

  “Who's that?”

  “Dave Sheply. He owns The Pier restaurant out by the mall. The guy's a psycho nut. I heard his chef, Carson Bell, stormed out during dinner hour.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Rumor is that Sheply's got his ship going down in a turbulent sea.” She had a spot-on reference for the nautical themed restaurant over a thousand miles from the ocean that specialized in craft beers, steaks, and, oh yes, sea food. She also mentioned two other contenders: Momma's Cafe and Mad Dogg Catering. Since my limited budget made frequenting these establishments a no go, I had nothing to add to the conversation.

  One thing about Brooke that I admire, whether she is nervous or not, she can keep a conversation going full tilt. “My money's on Dave Sheply. Everyone knows he's desperate to win that TV gig. Why else would he call a Channel 5 reporter to say he had to let his chef go because of harassment?” She lowered her voice, and added, “It was the other way around.”

  More note jotting.

  The detectives shared another eye contact moment when they found out about Henry's kids. Luckily, I had my cell phone with me and could give them Claire's number and address in New Mexico. I didn't have Henry's son's number, only an email address since he lives in Singapore. I didn't know information for Henry's ex-wife. He never talked about her. At least not to me.

  Hudson turned his laser-like brown eyes on me. “So is there anything else we should know? Ladies?”

  Not from me. “I don't think so,” I said. My friend had said more than enough.

  Notebooks closed.

  “Wait a minute. I have a question.” I almost forgot. “How did Henry die? You said homicide.” Thoughts of dying from either smoke or fire gave me the shivers.

  The two detectives looked at each other, another consult with the eyes, and then Detective Sams said, “It appears he was shot.”

  “No!” The room swirled around me for several long seconds. Then Brooke handed me a glass of water. It wasn't cold, only cool. However, it helped to stop my dizziness.

  Detective Sams took Henry's keys from me, tossed them to Hudson, and then escorted us out of the house. He trailed us. Locked the door and then came around to my side of the car. Angled off to the side with his back toward Sams, he extended a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else.” He cleared his throat. “My partner is ruthless with interrogating suspects. Best she not know about us.”

  We sat in the confines of Brooke's BMW for a while.

  “I can't believe someone killed Henry.” Tears clouded my vision. “Who? Why?”

  Brooke shrugged and then set a box of tissues between us. After we blew our noses and wiped our eyes Brooke said, “The detectives are still here.”

  I was still processing the day. “What are they doing?”

  Brooke glanced at her rearview mirror. “Looks like they're talking.”

  “I thought Lee was a doctor or some other medi
cal professional.”

  “What ever gave you that idea?”

  I told her how he cut short our so-called date. “Were you ever going to tell me he was police?” I pressed my fists into my thighs. “You know cops give me hives.”

  “No, they don't.” Brooke turned the ignition key. “The police are NOT and were NEVER your problem.”

  “I thought you were my friend. How could you set me up with a policeman?”

  She didn't look at me as we left. “I am your friend.” She let out a deep sigh. “He's a decent man. Very good at his job...” She glanced at me and added, “...so I'm told.”

  “What's that got to do with the color of tea in China?”

  “You know the hell what I mean.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up. You're being stupid and narrow minded.”

  “You are really mean.” I was not going to cry again and blinked until my eyes cleared.

  A long stretch of roadway passed in tense silence before she murmured, “I would have told you. Eventually.”

  “And I suppose you're now going to tell me he likes to drink.”

  She gave me a look that said volumes and made me wonder if I had stepped into some convoluted romance novel. This whole day was too unreal. “I could use a drink.”

  We didn't speak the rest of the way home.

  It was mid-afternoon, the usual time I'd be wrapping up my day. Brooke didn't stop at my house but kept going. When she stopped in her driveway, she said she was not about to let me out of her sight to let any craving undo what I had accomplished. She said I could just forget about Lee Hudson. And she would never fix me up with a guy again.

  She fed me scrambled eggs and herbal tea, rubbed Biofreeze on my sore back, and put me to bed in her guest suite. I missed what she said as she closed the door because I fell asleep.

  6

  I woke to the room flooded in sunshine and wondered what luxury hotel I was in before my brain cells sorted out my surroundings. When Brooke pushed me into her guest suite, she ordered me not to come out until I was sane. I've known her long enough to know she meant for me not to come out until I had corralled my urge for alcohol.