Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  Copyright Information

  Fiction Can Be Murder: A Mystery Writer’s Mystery © 2018 by Becky Clark.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2018

  E-book ISBN: 9780738753706

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Jeff Fitz-Maurice

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Clark, Becky, author.

  Title: Fiction can be murder / Becky Clark.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, [2018] |

  Series: A mystery writer’s mystery; 1

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017039535 (print) | LCCN 2017048439 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738753706 | ISBN 9780738753324 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Women authors—Fiction. |

  GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.L3563 (ebook) | LCC PS3603.L3563 F53 2018 (print)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039535

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  This is for …

  Cynthia Kuhn for the cheerleading

  Mary Birk and Leslie Budewitz for the nudge

  Shannon Baker for the exuberant quarterbacking

  Terri Bischoff for the trust

  Jess Lourey for the introduction

  Jill Marsal for the guidance

  and Wes Cornwell for the unconditional support even

  when he had no idea what I was blathering on about.

  Prologue

  Melinda Walter settled her lean Pilates body—the maintaining of which took all her free time and could fund North Korea’s military for a year—into the soft leather driver’s seat of her sleek red 1959 classic Corvette.

  It pleased her to know she lived in an area of Denver where she could keep a car like this unlocked overnight. Her husband begged her not to, but Melinda did whatever she pleased. Besides, she’d never had any trouble. Of course, it helped that she and her husband lived behind sturdy walls with a generously compensated twenty-four-hour guard patrolling the neighborhood. God bless America.

  She dug her keys and Versace sunglasses from her Gucci purse and twisted in her seat to tuck the bag safely behind her briefcase. Her slick-soled Manolo Blahniks searched for purchase across the nubby floor mat. Melinda turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life, heater on full blast. Startled, she fumbled for the knob. She twisted and turned it, poked and punched it, but only succeeded in firing up the cigarette lighter and NPR. Morning Edition host Steve Inskeep was screaming at her about the historic amounts of snow in Boston.

  “Shut up. I don’t care.” She managed to silence NPR, but the heater continued blasting icy air at her. Even though she didn’t believe in regret, a moment snuck in where she wished she’d chosen one of the cars from the heated garage this chilly morning. “Dammit.” She flipped through her mental Rolodex until she remembered the name of the mechanic who’d last touched her baby. “Joaquin. Good luck finding a new job after I get through with you.”

  The last person she’d fired had deserved it too. If a waiter wasn’t absolutely certain the Boeuf Bourguignon was made with true French burgundy, why would he let her order it in the first place? What if she’d been allergic to domestic wine rather than simply appalled by it? So what if he’d returned to tell her it was made with a California varietal and ask if she’d like to order something different. He owed her five minutes of her life back, thanks to his inefficiency. That kind of shoddy customer service simply wouldn’t fly with her. It was her duty to make management aware.

  Melinda pulled forward on the circular driveway. The steel-gray overcast didn’t require sunglasses, so she ripped off her Versaces with a grimace and glanced in the mirror. I look better in the sunshine. She checked both directions, then rumbled onto the street. Despite the frigid Colorado morning, before she’d passed the two other houses on her street the Corvette’s blast furnace had warmed up the interior. A little too much. A flush crept up her neck and face. She tugged at her angora scarf. She began coughing, just a little at first, but then uncontrollably.

  She gasped for breath. The car swerved. The steering wheel gyrated, spinning by itself. She blinked. Her neighborhood swam in her vision. She took her foot off the gas but hadn’t the presence of mind to step on the brake. Her Manolos slid wildly out of control on the mat.

  Breath barely came. She pictured someone pouring wet cement into her lungs and wondered what was happening. No air moved through her body. Breathing was a distant memory. How can I be drowning in the driver’s seat of my car two blocks from home? She was sure she’d missed something important in the trajectory of this moment.

  The Corvette jumped a curb, hit an ancient cottonwood tree, and came to a stop with two wheels in the wide planting strip between the street and sidewalk.

  Melinda wanted to reach for the phone in her purse, but her arm wouldn’t respond. Her mouth opened and closed silently like a trout on a riverbank. Her hands gripped the steering wheel and she couldn’t pry them off, no matter how hard she willed it. Vomit exploded from her red-lipsticked mouth.

  She sat paralyzed in her soft leather seat, Burberry coat stained with more than just the contents of her stomach.

  With a violent shudder, her head dangled sideways and her eyes rolled back, her death grip on the steering wheel an apt cliché.

  One

  I detoured toward the intersection that had changed my life, my Kia, like the Lone Ranger’s horse, knowing the way instinctively. The light was green, the Denver traffic heavy, and the strip mall parking lot already full. I sailed through on the green light, using my thumb and forefinger to flick the key hanging from my rearview mirror. My hand tremor was somewhat under control today and I hit it square, right where I intended. “Miss you, Dad.”

  I liked the days the light was red and I could stare at the parking lot for a moment, especially in the summer when
the daylilies, salvia, and Russian sage bloomed, softening the edges of the asphalt with cheerful yellow, orange, and purple tones.

  Today was not one of those days. The clouds hung low, blotting out the sun completely. I had absolute trust the stalwart Colorado sun would make an appearance soon. But for now, pedestrians in parkas hunched against the obnoxious March wind as I extricated myself from my self-imposed detour with a sharp right at the next intersection. In the passenger seat, the practically permanent one of these days I’ll get around to taking this stuff to Goodwill lawn-and-leaf bag wedged itself against the door. My celery-colored, BPA-free plastic travel mug bounced precariously from side to side in the overly roomy cupholder.

  I cranked the heater up a notch, wrinkling my nose at the musty odor.

  A few miles later I careened down the street, nearing the long, circular driveway of Kell Mooney’s McMansion, late once again for my writing group. My no-frills Kia made noises not typical for this kind of neighborhood. Kell’s power-walking neighbors stared at me. “Lower your noses. You’ll trip on something.” I smiled and waved, glad my window was up. You’d think they’d be used to Kell’s weekly writers meeting by now. They probably had their panic buttons curled in their palms and their rent-a-cop would come screeching up, humiliating me and irritating Kell. Didn’t want that. I guess the neighbors were just watching out for each other. Was that what rich people did? My neighbors would stare, too, but only to see if my bangs were too long or if I was wearing knock-off designer anything. My neighborhood was wannabe. Kell’s was the real deal.

  I bumped into his driveway, took a deep breath, and hoped the right constructive words would come to me during our upcoming discussion today. Feelings got hurt no matter how carefully critiquers chose their words. We were writers, after all, covering the spectrum from quivering puddle of goo to granite confidence. Unfortunately, the spectrum changed from project to project, and with some writers, from minute to minute. A constantly moving target.

  Kell’s twenty-something valet was waiting, as he did every week, until all the members had assembled. He stood without an overcoat on this nippy morning. I felt a pang of guilt.

  I pulled up, and he hurried to open the door of my blindingly blue Kia. I kept the bright color tamped down by a thick coat of dirt and grime. I considered it a public service.

  “Hello, Charlemagne.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late. You don’t have to wait out here for me every week. You must have something better to do. Inside. Where it’s warm.”

  He bent at the waist until our eyes met. “There’s nothing better than greeting one of Kell’s loveliest friends.”

  “Surely you know by now that I don’t tip. I do appreciate the flattery, though.”

  “I aim to please.” He extended his hand to help me out. “I can wash it while you’re here.”

  “My hand?”

  He smiled indulgently. “Your car.”

  Every week I vowed not to be late and not to be embarrassed by my car and every week I failed. “You’re sweet, but I can’t let you do that. I’ll make sure Kell knows you offered, though.”

  “I’m happy to do it.”

  “Which is why we love you.” I threw my messenger bag over my head, the strap across my chest. I left what remained of my mediocre coffee in the cupholder. Delicious and hot coffee awaited me inside.

  The valet helped me disentangle an enormous balloon bouquet filling the backseat. I took it upon myself to celebrate every publishing success the members of the group earned, no matter how big or small. Writing is difficult, solitary work, full of rejection and self-doubt. A cheering section—even a small one—goes a long way.

  The valet ushered me into the grand foyer and handed back the balloons before driving my filthy car to Kell’s pristine and perfectly sanitized seven-hundred-car garage. Lab-coated attendants with clipboards flitted about, dip-sticking and tire-gauging while making concerned clucking sounds over the vehicles.

  At least that’s how I pictured it. I never had to venture more than a few steps to retrieve my car after our meetings, as the valet had them waiting in a neat line. When we left it felt like a parade.

  The idea of the valet listening in to know when we were winding down our meeting sometimes amused me, depending on the submissions we were discussing, but usually just made me uncomfortable. It was the same with Kell’s household staff. The closest I came to having servants was watching Downton Abbey.

  I waved off the housekeeper, preferring to wrangle my messenger bag and balloons by myself. As I neared Kell’s enormous library, I heard AmyJo McFarland say, “Things aren’t always as they appear. What makes you think I’m totally revising The Zero Boy Summer? Maybe I already sent it off to agents and am waiting to hear glorious songs of praise from them.”

  The idea made me smile. AmyJo hadn’t submitted a manuscript to anyone but us in longer than I could remember. Unlike me—whose middle name might as well be Good Enough—AmyJo gets hung up on perfection, as if a manuscript could ever be perfect. That’s a laugh. Somebody once said that manuscripts were never finished, only abandoned, which is a sentiment I heartily agree with. AmyJo does not, which is why she may never get her angsty young adult book published.

  I leaned against the doorjamb, not wanting to interrupt the weekly drama. Half the critique group—Kell, AmyJo, Jenica Jahns, and Cordelia Hollister-Fiske—sat like King Arthur’s knights around a huge mahogany table. AmyJo masterfully deflected every time someone asked her who she’d sent her manuscript to.

  There’s always something interesting going on with a group of writers. To an outsider, it probably seemed like we argued a lot. Because we did. But it was good-natured and we all thought we were helping, whether the issue was tricky plot development or trickier career planning. We mostly stayed out of each other’s real lives, though, because none of us particularly wanted life critiques. Manuscript critiques were difficult enough.

  I glanced at the side table laden with food and my stomach rumbled. Kell had his kitchen staff put out our favorites each week. As I decided to make my move toward a Key Lime Pie–flavored yogurt, Einstein Eichhorn pushed through the doorway, waving his arms at my balloon bouquet like he was dodging an angry swarm of hornets. I sighed, stepping aside to let him pass. His social skills were as miniscule as his intelligence was massive.

  “Sorry. Had an emergency appointment,” he said, a bit too loud. His shirt was buttoned wrong and his hair was wet. He didn’t always remember to practice good hygiene, so at least this was something.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  He executed a perfect sitcom double-take, completely unaware he’d just blown by me standing there. He set his backpack on the table. It was held together with safety pins and duct tape, and I wondered once again what his household furniture must look like.

  He turned back to paw through the main pocket of his backpack. “I read a review.”

  All of us gasped and spoke at once, the gist being he really shouldn’t do that but how lucky he was to have a therapist on call. He held up one hand. “In my defense, it was one-star and began, ‘I don’t know anything about astrophysics, but … ’”

  Ouch. Those hurt. Even I get those. Not about astrophysics, of course, but equally ridiculous. I’m giving Ms. Russo’s book one star because I ordered the wrong book. Or, this is a mystery and I hate reading mysteries, even though the description clearly states it’s a mystery. Or, my favorite, I thought this was by Richard Russo, NOT Charlemagne Russo, whoever she is. I LOVE his books. Won’t bother to read hers.

  It took volumes of emotional maturity to ignore those kinds of bogus reviews. I barely had it, but Einstein decidedly did not, as demonstrated by his weekly therapy appointment to wrangle his Emotional Quotient and Intelligence Quotient, constantly battling for space in his brain. His IQ won most of the time, I’m sure to the dismay of his therapist. He was a certified genius
, the Mensa-card-carrying kind, writing serious, scholarly books about astrophysics.

  “People should never read their reviews.” I shifted the bouquet to one hand and used the other to grab a yogurt. “You might end up believing them.” I placed the balloons in the middle of the big table, pleased that I’d remembered to ask for extra-long ribbons so we could still see each other through the table decoration. “These are for Heinrich.” I peered through the ribbons. “I brought him cigars, too. Where is he?”

  “Maybe he had to go back home and change, too.” AmyJo grinned, knowing my penchant for spills.

  “I’ll have you know I didn’t have to go home to change. I had an appointment with my agent.” Just a little white lie. Besides, it was none of their beeswax if I spilled coffee on my blouse and had to go back and change. Again. “I thought I’d be the last one here. Sheelah’s not here either?” I peeled off the foil lid of my yogurt and picked up the first of three spoons arranged in a perfectly straight row at my place setting. Not sure what the other two were for, but I felt fairly confident I could perform all my spoonly duties this morning with just the one.

  “Sheelah had a dentist appointment. Not sure about Heinrich,” Kell said. “I almost didn’t make it either. God bless National Airlines for getting me on that red-eye before the storm hit Chicago.” He raised his mug in salute. “I’m getting too old for all this travel.”

  “Nonsense. You’re more active than all of us put together.” Cordelia took a dainty sip of coffee. She probably wouldn’t speak again for ten minutes.

  I dropped my spoon while chasing a drip, making it clatter on the table. The housekeeper hurried to my side with a new spoon. I’ve been down this same road with her before so I graciously accepted the new spoon she held millimeters from the other two at my place setting. I used it to flick one of the balloons, making it bob and bounce. “I brought these to celebrate yet another of Heinrich’s magazine bylines. He’s on a hot streak. He’s had so many short stories published I bet he’s lost count.”