Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  A man walking a golden retriever slowed and stared hard at me as he passed, derailing my thoughts, obviously trying to ascertain why I was just sitting in my car.

  He wouldn’t believe me if I told him.

  I waved at him, then reached into my bag and pulled out a clipboard with some papers and a pen attached. The top sheet was a form I’d made that morning, all part of my plan. I buried my Peeping Tom worries and concentrated on the issue at hand. The SUV hadn’t returned, and I hoped Lance was right that it was just my imagination.

  I got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk toward Dave and Veta’s house. But I stopped at their next door neighbor’s and rang the bell.

  A woman who looked to be in her sixties opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Hello, I’m conducting some research about—”

  “Not interested.” She started to close the door.

  “It’ll just take a minute. I’ll make it worth your while.” I mentally pawed through my bag, trying to determine if I did, in fact, have anything to make it worth her while.

  “How?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “Um … ” Now I actually pawed through my bag. “Starbucks gift card!” I thrust it triumphantly in the air.

  “How much?”

  “Ten bucks.” It was a token thank you for speaking to a writer’s group a couple of months before. How could they have known I always went to Espresso Yourself?

  “Okay, but make it snappy. And you might want to lead with that in the future.” She held out her hand and I dropped the card into it.

  “You’re right. I’m new at this.” I pulled the cap from the pen and dug the clipboard into my ribs.

  “What’s this about again?”

  “Your TV habits.”

  “Are we going to be a Nielson family? I’ve always wanted to do that.” The woman slid the Starbucks card into the pocket of her sweater.

  “First, do you have cable?”

  “No, it got too expensive and it was all crap on there anyway.” She nodded at the clipboard. “You tell them that.”

  “For sure.” I wrote expensive crap. “Next question, do you have Netflix?”

  “We get movies in the mail, but next door they have the whatdo­youcallit … George?” She turned and yelled into the house, “What do you call it when we go to Dave and Veta’s to watch TV?”

  A rumpled gray-haired man came to the door. “Sunday?”

  “No, that Netflix thing.”

  “Breaking Bad ?”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “No, when you don’t get the movies in the mail but it comes straight through the air.”

  George shrugged.

  “Streaming?” I suggested.

  “Yes. Streaming.” She shooed George away. “He’s not the techie in the family, but he loves going next door for our weekly Breaking Bad watch party. Dave’s an ex-science teacher, so we do it like a book club. We watch and discuss. Sometimes he pauses it to explain more about cooking meth.”

  The idea of four retirees talking about cooking meth made me giggle. “And you do this every Sunday?”

  “Yep. Before that we watched all of The West Wing because George used to teach civics. Same thing.” She leaned in close. “But just between you and me, I like Breaking Bad better.” She grinned. “They should have called it Breaking Best.”

  “Sure,” I said, jotting some notes. “And just to clarify, you were next door at Dave and Veta’s this past Sunday night watching?”

  “Yep.”

  “What time?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. They come over here around six and I cook dinner. We’re usually over there around eight.”

  “And how long did you stay?”

  “We’re probably home ten or ten thirty, most nights.”

  I winced. That didn’t create much of an alibi. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but corroboration for just a few hours of the time in question wasn’t enough. It was too bad they didn’t turn their viewing parties into slumber parties.

  “Wanna write down the other shows I like?”

  “Um … no, I think I have everything I need.”

  “Not much of a questionnaire.”

  She was right. I needed her to think I was really doing research. I flipped the page, hoping she wouldn’t see it was blank. I angled the clipboard up higher. “Oh, silly me. I forgot the second page. And yes, they want to know the other shows you like.”

  She began rattling off titles, many of which I’d never heard of. Occasionally she’d launch into lengthy and disjointed synopses that I pretended to listen to. But my mind was elsewhere, trying to figure out how I could account for Dave and Veta’s time past ten thirty when their neighbors went home.

  Suddenly a metallic shriek rocked the neighborhood, and I flinched.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. That’s just Dave and Veta’s garage door.” The woman craned her neck toward their house, but I made sure to keep my back to it. “It’s off its tracks or something but they won’t get it fixed. Used to scare the daylights out of me and I’d come running.” She waved. “Dave must be heading off to work.”

  I tapped the pen cap against my cheek. “Do you hear it at night, too?”

  She laughed. “They don’t drive at night. That car is locked up snug as a bug in a rug from sundown to sunup.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. And I’d know it if it wasn’t. The first time I heard that door, around Christmastime, I was taking a nap. I almost fell off the couch. And then I went over and gave them a piece of my mind.”

  I smiled and tucked the clipboard into my bag. “I think that’s everything I need, Mrs. … ”

  “You never asked my name.” She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “It’s supposed to be anonymous, but if they need anything further, they can contact you through your Netflix account.” I inwardly cringed, knowing that made absolutely no sense.

  “They better have more Starbucks for me, then.”

  “You can be sure of it. Thanks for your time.”

  She shut the door without a goodbye and I hurried away from Dave and Veta’s house, toward my car. When I got there, I dialed the phone.

  “Hey, Veta? Can you and Dave come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “No, we had to quit driving at night, dear. Our eyes got old when we weren’t looking. But I could do lunch.”

  “Are you sure? You never drive at night? Not even to do something fun?”

  “Did you go to cooking school or something, dear?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “If it’s that important to you, we could call one of those Uber cars I’ve been hearing about.”

  “No, never mind. What are you doing right now?”

  “Nothing. Dave just left for work.”

  “How ’bout I get some sandwiches and come over?”

  “That would be lovely, dear!”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  •

  After sandwiches and leftover pecan pie, I waved goodbye to Veta, thrilled to know I could cross both her and Dave off my suspect list. I’d quizzed her a million different ways and felt entirely confident that they never opened their squealing garage door at night, they always parked in their garage, and they truly never drove at night anymore.

  As I drove home, giddy with my success, I considered each of the remaining suspects on my list. How to cross them off?

  I’d been playing phone tag with Kell’s secretary to see if she’d confirm that he was on that red-eye flight, but I wasn’t sure how to verify Cordelia and Byron’s alibis, or Henry’s, or what Dooley had said about Jenica’s.

  And I didn’t even know what Einstein and Heinrich claimed to be doing that night.

  I did feel confident that Suzanne went to work at
the Senior Center, so she was clear after about three thirty a.m. on Monday, but I only had circumstantial evidence that she’d broken into the bookstore before that. Was half an alibi good enough?

  And technically, I hadn’t crossed off Melinda herself yet. But that was ridiculous. Nobody would commit suicide by poisoning themselves with mercury. Unless they were beyond evil and really wanted to frame me.

  Okay, she stayed.

  A couple days ago, I’d almost crossed Q off because of her alibi with the timestamps on those postings on the Dear Horrible Writer forum. I wished I knew more about computer stuff.

  I braked hard and whipped into a shopping center, parking in an outlying spot. I needed to ask Ozzi. I dug for my phone. I was ready to make up with him. Wasn’t I? I fiddled with my phone and tried to decide. He thought I was a murderer. I’d thought the same of him prior to my conversation with Lulaila Philpott, but I’d had to. It was part of my job while investigating this. He’d thought it about me immediately. I remembered him backing away from me during my booty call. He’d called me ridiculous.

  I dropped the phone back in my purse and drove home, thinking about computers and timestamps.

  When I got there, I went straight to my computer. Dooley had mentioned something about a photographer for the Fillmore Theatre snapping pictures at that concert. Maybe the photos would have timestamps, like Mr. Dunphy’s did. I pulled up the Fillmore website and clicked the link to the Pleasure Center for Armadillos concert, and then another link that took me to the band’s website.

  My screen filled with thumbnails of photos from the concert. I scrolled down. Four pages of thumbnail photos. I clicked on the first one, which was of an empty stage, and it filled my screen. Below it was a small date and timestamp.

  “Yes!” I pumped a fist in the air.

  I studied the photo, searching for the name of the photographer who might be able to corroborate Jenica’s alibi. Nothing. I tried the next picture. And the next. And several more.

  I didn’t find the photographer’s identity, but I did find something else. All the photos had yesterday’s date. Which meant these timestamps recorded the time of the upload, not the time the photos were taken.

  I groaned, then minimized the page of thumbnails and squinted until I spotted some of Jenica and Dooley. I paged through all the photos. So many of the two of them, partying, dancing, hanging with the band. At least Dooley had been telling me the truth about being there early and staying late.

  I scrolled all the way to the bottom of the home page on the band’s website until I saw Photography copyrighted by Josh Argus. For rights, click here. I did, and ended up on the contact page of his website.

  I dialed the number. When he answered, I said, “I’m interested in the photos you took at the Pleasure Center for Armadillos concert in Denver recently.”

  “What’s your email and I’ll shoot you a price list.”

  “Oh. Not to buy them. I just need some information.”

  “Story of my life.”

  “I’m more of a show-tunes girl, myself.”

  “Are you trying to make me cry?”

  I thought for a minute. “I like Green Day. That Billie Joe Armstrong … got any good ones of him?”

  “Yeah. No. You are aware I take pictures of Pleasure Center for Armadillos. But next time Billie Joe opens for them, I’ll snap a couple for you.”

  “And I’ll pay you.”

  “You’ll be the first.” Josh Argus paused. “I like you. If you don’t want pictures, what do you want?”

  “Information. I’m trying to find out if you remember the contest winners that night. You have a bunch of pictures of them.”

  “Dooley and Jenica? Of course I remember them. They were a hoot.”

  “Can you tell me when they got there and when they left?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “No. But I need to know. I’m like Jenica’s big sister.”

  “They were there before I got there around four o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and they were still at the after-party when I left around seven Monday morning. Ah, to be young again.”

  “Seems like you held your own. Those are some great shots you uploaded.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I ask you one more thing? I see all the uploads are timestamped. In theory, could you change those if you wanted to?”

  He thought for a minute. “I don’t know. Maybe I could change the date and time settings of my computer.”

  “What if you were uploading them to someone else’s website or, for instance, posting in a forum you were the webmaster of?”

  “I suppose anything is possible, but you’d probably need to have done the coding for the site to begin with, or at least have complete access to it. And for this many photos, it would be hella time consuming. Most people only know how to do the little bit they need to do on their computers. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “What happens when you have a problem with your word processing program?”

  “I shout and cry and pour myself a drink until it magically repairs itself.”

  “Same thing I do with my editing programs.”

  “So you think it’s the same with timestamps on message boards and stuff? Would you have to be a total techie?”

  “You mean like to change the stamp on every single message?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That would take forever. If it was even possible. Some websites get hundreds of interactions every hour.” He paused. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m a lot of people’s big sister. Thanks for your time, Josh.”

  I dug for my suspect list and drew a satisfying line through Q’s name and Jenica’s.

  Closing the lid of my computer, I leaned back and rolled my shoulders, visions of timestamps dancing in my head. Suddenly I snapped up straight in my chair.

  I dialed Cordelia’s number. “Are you home? Give me your address and I’ll be right over.”

  •

  I drove my Kia onto the cleanest, most pristine driveway I’d ever seen and prayed fervently that I wouldn’t drip oil on it. If I’d expected to stay long, I would have reversed and parked out on the street. I hurried up the walkway to Cordelia’s dignified mansion, cream-colored with dark slate tiles on its steep gabled roof. I stopped and took two steps backward, looking to my left. “A turret. Wow.”

  She answered the door almost before I rang the bell. “What’s going on, Charlee? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing! Show me your burglar alarm.”

  Cordelia pointed to a plastic-covered box mounted on the wall behind me.

  “We can check your alarm.” I spoke fast and breathless. “When you set it on Sunday night and when you turned it off. There’s probably a timestamp on it.” I studied the small printed directions and punched some numbers. “Ta da! I just proved your alibi.” I stepped back and offered her a closer look with a Vanna White wave of my hand.

  Cordelia rubbed the pearls around her neck but didn’t move. Instead she wrinkled her brow and said, “Yes. Well, that and our security cameras showing we never left the house. We figured that out and told the police already.”

  I allowed the combination of humiliation and exhilaration to flow through me. It was odd. Like broccoli with chocolate sauce. Or a brick bed with a feather pillow. Or an all-expense-paid vacation to a rendering plant.

  “I’m sorry, Charlee. It didn’t occur to me to tell you.”

  “Of course not. Why would you?” I smiled at her. “I’m just glad your alibi is official.”

  And I was. Another name crossed off. Actually, two, because her husband had been there with her.

  Eleven down, six to go.

  Nineteen

  Saturday dawned overcast and extra cold. Yesterday’s sun had melted the sn
ow from our last storm, except for the iciest and most hard-packed on the perpetually frozen north side of the buildings. But because it was March, Colorado’s snowiest month, our clear roads were threatened once again as the next storm being hyped looked like it would finally arrive.

  The unpredictability of March snow always causes mob-mentality panic at local grocery stores. The slightly empty shelves are nowhere near Russian-breadline empty, but panicky shoppers still grab emergency supplies as if the Bolsheviks are closing in. However, even after our worst blizzards, with record snowfall amounts, within the next day or two the blue sky smiles down upon us. Schools reopen, dogs get walked, roads become passable. In Denver, you’ll never be inconvenienced for long unless you’re having a baby or a heart attack, both of which log higher rates during blizzards.

  Stress-related, I suppose. But there’s always a tinge of low-grade stress just before the storm hits. I will admit to getting sucked into the Grocery Store Apocalyptic Groupthink Drama once, the day before a blizzard. I saw there were only two pounds of butter on the shelf and I grabbed them both. I didn’t need butter, and certainly not eight sticks of it, but I felt the pull of that panic. What if I did need it? What if I ran out? How would I survive for two whole days with only the single stick of butter I’d had in my refrigerator for the past three months?

  But on this morning the clouds only spat random flakes, trying to work up the enthusiasm to match the weather forecasters’ hype. I had bigger worries than my pantry situation, although it occurred to me that I was low on practically everything, including cold medicine. The thought of going to the grocery store on a Saturday exhausted me, however. Better to starve to death.

  The apartment complex was quiet. Most people were off work and school, sleeping in or puttering around home. I suspected everyone had coffee in the house except me. I pulled the corner of my drapes back and looked with longing across the parking lot toward Espresso Yourself. I sighed and wrapped my robe tighter around me. At least my wrist and behind weren’t as sore today.

  Maybe I could run upstairs and ask Don and Barb to borrow enough coffee to make a pot. Maybe they’d even have some already brewed. With pancakes. And bacon. And scrambled eggs. Maybe if I called, they’d bring it all down to my apartment.