Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  In a quiet monotone she said, “My husband, Byron, was involved in an investment project that went bad.”

  “So? What does that have to do with—”

  “It was with Melinda’s husband, Henry.”

  My mind raced, trying to fit the pieces together. “I didn’t know you knew Melinda.”

  “I don’t. Didn’t. But the men had dealings.”

  “Dealings? What was the investment?”

  “I don’t really know. It went very badly for my Byron but was quite lucrative for Henry. Byron has told more than one person he thinks he got cheated.”

  “How did he get cheated?”

  “I don’t know. Byron doesn’t tell me many details.” She added, “And I don’t ask.”

  My brain was still grasping, and failing, to create the picture from these puzzle pieces. “What would that have to do with Melinda’s murder?”

  “Nothing,” Cordelia said, much too quickly. “That’s why I wanted to stay out of it and keep Byron out of it. It clearly has no bearing on her unfortunate murder and simply muddies the waters.”

  “Did the police ask about your husband?”

  “No. They just asked if I knew her. I didn’t lie.” I heard her voice catch. “You won’t mention it to them?”

  “No.” Not unless I have to. “Do you have an alibi for that night?”

  “I was home.” Cordelia paused. “All night … with Byron.”

  That was some odd phrasing. Why not I was home all night with Byron?

  “Charlee?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “You’ll tell me if you hear anything else?”

  “Yes, of course.” Unless what I hear is that you and/or your husband murdered Melinda. “Talk to you later.”

  I added Byron’s name to my suspect list. In both his and Cordelia’s Alibi column I wrote, “At home with spouse.” And in his Motive column I wrote, “Bad business deal with Henry?”

  Then I added Henry Walter’s name to the list. I knew next to nothing about him but always assumed he was some high-powered CEO, perhaps of his own company. With the information from Cordelia, that still seemed likely. I should have added him to my original list. The very first name. I thought back to all the mysteries I’d read and crime dramas I’d watched. The spouse was the murderer in a good sixty percent of them, and he would presumably have the most to gain from Melinda’s death.

  After a pause, in the Motive column for Cordelia, Byron, Melinda, and Henry, I added, “Affair?”

  Just as I was beginning to believe he was the murderer, I remembered that Henry hadn’t read my manuscript. It was a remote possibility, I supposed, that perhaps during a bout of insomnia he’d found it lying around, but Melinda had once told me her husband was too busy to be involved in her agency business. Plus, I couldn’t picture Melinda leaving anything lying around. I’d never been to her house, but I assumed it was all white and chrome, sparsely furnished. Melinda was lean and sleek, so why wouldn’t everything else in her life be the same?

  She was also ruthless, and it made me wonder what kind of marriage they’d had. Had they always been rich? Was there any kind of prenuptial agreement between them? Melinda wasn’t the kind to go in for chit-chat, so we’d never had any kind of heart-to-heart conversation, certainly not about her life. I’d done my share of worrying and whining to her, but only as it related to my writing career.

  Suddenly curious about my relationship with her agency, now that she was dead, I went to the file cabinet and pulled out my contract with the Melinda Walter Literary Agency. I knew right where it was because I’d had it out recently to check on the language about auditing my royalties.

  The three-page document didn’t take long to scan. I breathed a sigh of relief when I read Clause 4: After the initial term of this Agreement, either party may terminate this Agreement at any time upon thirty (30) days prior notice.

  In a little over a month, then, I could be free of any doubts about my royalties. I could take action on my own and figure out whether someone was playing fast and loose with my money or whether my sales had actually tanked, although I wasn’t sure which I hoped for. I looked forward to dealing directly with my publisher without a middleman, only concerning myself with writing and promoting my books.

  My relief was short-lived as I returned attention to my yellow notepad. I had two more suspects than when I started, and even more questions.

  Gah. Fiction was so much easier than real life.

  Five

  After staring at the notepad for twenty minutes, I took a break, trying to clear my head by visiting a few of my comfort reads until Ozzi got home. I sat in my favorite reading chair by the window but couldn’t concentrate on my book. Not on any of them, in fact. Janet Evanovich, Carl Hiaasen, Gretchen Archer. Nope. Tried grittier with Wendy Corsi Staub. Hank Phillippi Ryan. Philip Donlay. Nope. Nope. Nope. Even pulled from my ever-growing stack of magazines. I simply couldn’t keep pulling my eyes across the page.

  I gave up and dropped my Writer’s Digest to the carpet while staring at the brown winter landscape of my apartment complex, clumps of straw-colored ornamental grasses waving in the wind. Leafless beige trees. Dormant grass the color of sand. Banks of dirty snow plowed into the far corners of the parking lot. The sun began setting over the mountains, tinging my world with otherworldly light in shades of orange, pink, yellow, and blue. I watched the sky change colors behind the thin clouds, as if the artist couldn’t decide on his palette.

  I never got tired of watching the sun set from this window. Today it felt especially calming. Clear sky or cloudy, as long as it wasn’t completely overcast, there was magic in a Rocky Mountain sunset. Most summer nights Ozzi and I sat side by side, holding hands in our matching anti-gravity chairs on my patio, keeping vigil, often with a margarita or one of our many favorite craft brews. In the winter, though, the sun went down before he got home from work, so we only had weekend sunsets. Only once, about three years ago, did we bundle up and try to watch from the patio in winter. We’d only been dating a few weeks and it seemed romantic at the time, but it was the stuff of erectile dysfunction commercials, all gauzy and ridiculous, and about a thousand degrees colder than was comfortable. We’d hustled inside, romance be damned, and ordered pizza.

  I glanced at the clock. He’d be home soon. His third floor unit in another building in our sprawling complex faced east. We never saw sunsets over there, but we saw plenty of sunrises from his bed. Our friends kept asking why we didn’t move in together. Both of us had big enough apartments and we got along great, but we liked this arrangement. We liked being together and apart, with some elbow room. He was in building JJ, I was in D. It was just enough distance for an easy, uncomplicated relationship. We had the occasional dust-up, but we agreed on just about everything important. Any arguments were usually because one or both of us were hangry, and finished and forgotten as soon as we shoved food in our mouths, proving my theory that anything could be solved with a grilled cheese sandwich. World leaders should try this.

  The exterior lights of the complex kicked on. The ones on the three-story buildings glowed golden and cast long shadows on the walls, and the floodlights in the landscaping spotlighted the more dramatic plants and shrubs while illuminating the wide, curving sidewalks. The parking lot lights were already on, and more cars began snaking through the complex, headlights raking over the Monday night drive home.

  One of the cars beeped its horn.

  He’s home.

  Ozzi drove an absolutely silent Prius. He was in the habit of letting me know when he drove by, partly because I wouldn’t hear him otherwise, but partly as proof to the judgmental greenies in the complex of his ongoing commitment to the environment. He might never recover from the sheer number and severity of stink-eyes he received from them whenever he’d idled his old Jeep in front of my building.

  I had a brain
storm and closed the drapes before heading to the bedroom to change. In my haste, I bumped into the wall, jostling one of the oversized art postcards I’d hung there after one of my many forays to the Denver Art Museum. As I straightened Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhone, all blues and yellows highlighting the nuance of shadows of the night, a wave of melancholy washed over me. I’d chosen it in the gift shop because the stars over the water reminded me of standing at the edge of Grand Lake watching Independence Day fireworks as a kid, holding Dad’s hand. I squared up the postcard. And my emotions.

  It didn’t take long to get ready. I needed this to take my mind off things. I’ll tell him all about my craptastic day … afterward.

  I pulled my hair over one shoulder and clasped a necklace behind my neck. I smoothed my bangs and fluffed my hair, leaving it long and loose, how he liked it. I stepped into an old pair of battered clogs, knowing my ankles would be cold, but only for the few minutes while I walked over.

  With my long wool coat buttoned around me, I grabbed my keys and left, forgetting for a second my fear earlier that day. But only for a second. As I made my way down the curving sidewalk, I heard rustling nearby and snapped my head toward it. Nothing. A car door slammed and I snapped the opposite direction. My terror of maniac slashers in every bush roared back, pounding in my head. A voice erupted in laughter behind me and I stiffened. A teenager dashed across the sidewalk in front of me. I froze, then walked faster. A car slowed and pulled a U-turn ten feet ahead. I stopped again, legs paralyzed, fingers curling around the keys in my pocket. The car faced me, idling ominously at the curb. The interior was dark, windows tinted. Just as I was ready to turn and flee back to my apartment, a woman stepped out of the car, saying, “Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow.” She slammed the door and crossed in front of me, digging in her purse without even acknowledging me.

  I flew the rest of the way to Ozzi’s apartment, rocketing up three flights of stairs to his door. The fluorescent light buzzed and sputtered like punk wasps cruising for trouble. I took some deeps breaths while opening and closing my fists to calm myself in the cold night air before knocking.

  Ozzi opened the door, and the ripe odor of his just-abandoned work loafers greeted me. He stood aside to let me in, but I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped out of my clogs. He still had his perfectly maintained scruffy beard and barely-there moustache that always made him look like he’d been camping for four days, but he didn’t smile at me. Nor did he wrap me in a hug and greet me with the deep, hungry kiss I craved.

  So I planted one on him. He responded appropriately, so whatever it was couldn’t be too bad.

  “Bad day at the hack factory?”

  “I’m not a hacker,” he said automatically.

  “Websites, software, hacking. Whatever lets you sleep at night.” I slipped him some tongue. Truth was, the boy had computer skills and if he ever wanted to put them to use and become an evil overlord, he’d be one of the best. He wasn’t a bad kisser, either.

  He cut short the make-out session, pulling back and looking at my face. “Not now, Charlee.”

  “Why’d you honk if you didn’t want me to come over?” I put my arms around his neck, dragging my fingernails through his longish hair.

  “Habit. I’m sorry. I should have called.”

  “You must have had a bad day.” I nuzzled his neck and flicked my tongue in his ear, which usually fired up all his cylinders. His engine roared but stalled immediately, and he pulled away.

  I had a surprise for him, though, and was glad I’d thought of it when it seemed we both needed a little pick-me-up. I unbuttoned my coat, slowly, deliberately, while he watched. I slipped out of the sleeves and let it drop to the floor. I stood in my most come-hither pose, naked but for the necklace.

  He didn’t come hither.

  “Seriously? Nothing?” I struck a different pose.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I thought I was irresistible.” I picked up my coat and shook it off. I left my pride there on the floor.

  “It’s me.”

  “You’re irresistible?” I tried again, giving him a sexy pout. I began to feel foolish and guilty for thinking I could override the seriousness of today’s events, even for a short time.

  He frowned, either not understanding my joke or not listening.

  “Last chance,” I told him.

  He shook his head, so I put on my coat, then opened it, flasher-style. Nothing. I sighed and wrapped it around me. When I took my hair out of the collar, I brushed my hand on the necklace. “Oh, look. I fixed it.” I leaned toward him to show the jewelry. It was just a costume piece, but he’d noticed it matched my favorite sweater and wrapped it up last Christmas. I wore it a lot, but had dropped it, breaking one of the little ceramic flowers. “I love that Glu-Pocalypse.”

  “You used Glu-Pocalypse?”

  “Yeah. It worked great.” I shimmied and twerked like the cartoon tubes of glue in the commercial while singing the jingle, “accidentally” pushing my boobs together while letting the coat fall open. “If your force field comes unsealed, if your cup needs to be healed,” I sang, hitting the rhyme hard, “if your kitchen faucet drips, or upholst’ry got some rips, Glu-Pocalypse! Glu-Pocalypse! Glu-Poc-A-Lypse!” I ended with a bump-and-grind of my own creation.

  He ran a hand through his hair and didn’t even smile or check out my lady bits. “Glu-Pocalypse. Like in your manuscript?” His eyes darted from my necklace to my face.

  “You heard?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. This was a bad idea. “Lots of people use Glu-Pocalypse, Oz,” I said quietly, stepping toward him.

  He backed away.

  I raised my palms. “You think I killed Melinda?”

  He wouldn’t look me in the eye. My mind skittered around, trying to find traction. How could he think this? Because I’d fixed my necklace with the same kind of glue I wrote about? The kind everybody in the world has stashed in their junk drawer? That’s like accusing everyone who owns a knife of being Jack the Ripper.

  “Why didn’t you call me, Charlee? Why’d I hear this from my sister?”

  “Your sister? It just happened! How did Bubbles hear about it?”

  “The police called her.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think they’d work that fast.”

  “They called me, too, but I didn’t return their message.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Hoping to hear it from you.”

  “Why didn’t you call me if you were so concerned?”

  He shrugged again and we had a twenty-second stare-down.

  Ozzi blinked first. “Why aren’t you more upset? You show up for a booty call when all this is … ” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  “How did you know it happened like my manuscript?”

  “Bubbles said they were talking to everyone who read it and were asking questions about it. I made an assumption.”

  I continued to stare at him, knowing my mouth was set that ugly way it gets, but I didn’t care. Let him see. He was being ugly too. “I can’t believe I have to say this to you, of all people, but I did not kill my agent.” I shoved my hands in my coat pockets. They’d still shake, but he wouldn’t see.

  “She was murdered exactly like—”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” I snapped. “Pretty sure that’s why the cops hauled me in and questioned me half the day. And for the record, I told them the same thing. Because I didn’t kill her.”

  “Then who did?” Ozzi’s voice was quiet and calm, like he didn’t want to make me mad. Too late.

  “How should I know?” I yelled, and he flinched. Good. At least he was paying attention. “It was probably the mechanic who worked on Melinda’s car. He found the manuscript in the backseat. That’s what Lance told me.” Kinda.

  Ozzi took another step backward and leaned agai
nst the arm of the couch. “But what kind of motive would a mechanic have?”

  His quiet voice made mine grow louder. “I don’t know. You’ve met Melinda. You’ve seen her interact with the service industry. You said you wanted to strangle her that time she yelled at everybody at the Brown Palace. Remember?”

  “That’s just a turn of phrase.”

  “Is it? Are you sure you didn’t strangle her?”

  “Charlee, come on … ”

  “No, YOU come on.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have a motive.”

  “I don’t either!”

  He cocked his head. “You told me yourself that the only motives in murder are money, love, and revenge. I know you didn’t love her, but you have been, let’s say, concerned with your royalty statements. That she controls. That you think are wrong.”

  “I don’t have to stand here and listen to this.” I buttoned my coat. Halfway down, I stopped. “There’s another motive. Jealousy.” Jealousy, now that I thought about it, was more like a subset of love. But one doesn’t quibble during an argument. One states opinions disguised as facts, the more emphatic, the better.

  “Who was jealous of Melinda?”

  “Not of her. Of me.”

  He looked confused, so I spelled it out. “Who do you know who is always talking about my success and how she wishes she had it?”

  Ozzi raised his hands, palms up, in the classic I don’t know gesture. Although combined with the look on his face, it was more like the what the hell are you talking about now gesture.

  “Think, Oz. Who’s an aspiring writer? Who begged you to talk me into letting her be one of my beta readers? Who’s pushy and loud and always gets her way?” He still had the puzzled look on his face so I screamed, “Your sister, Oz!”

  “Bubbles? Why would she?”

  “I told you. Jealousy. Of me. Jealous of my success. Jealous that I’m an actual writer who writes actual books and has an actual literary agent managing my actual career. Jealous that I’m not middle-aged with the name of a performing monkey.”