Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  A knock on the door made me smile, then frown. The fantasy of the Singers bringing me a hot multi-course breakfast faded away. I tiptoed to the peephole and saw Detective Campbell-like-the-soup filling the space like a human Pike’s Peak. He held two cups of coffee, one raised in the air as if he knew I’d peek out. He wore a parka and a look on his face that said, You know you want it.

  I ducked down and squat-walked toward the kitchen. Halfway there I turned and squat-walked back to the door. “I’m not dressed,” I called through the door. “Leave the coffee and come back in an hour.”

  “No can do.”

  I debated for as long as a hungry lion debates whether to pounce on a wounded gazelle.

  I opened the door a crack and held out my hand for the coffee. “I just got up, I’m not dressed, I smell bad, my back hurts, and I haven’t brushed my teeth. I wasn’t really expecting company.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for. I was also hoping you wanted coffee.”

  “More than life itself.”

  He handed me the cup but didn’t let go, so I reluctantly stepped aside so he could enter. I glared at him until he released the coffee. We sat at the kitchen table, where I removed the lid from my cup and stuck my nose millimeters from the earthy aroma of its contents. Was that a hint of cinnamon? I let the heat tendrils crawl up my nostrils and into my good graces. Twice. Then I faced him.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “I’m on my own today.”

  I blew on my coffee and took a fortifying sip. He wouldn’t bring me coffee if he was here to arrest me. Would he? Is that how they did it at the fancy precincts? “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I wanted to ask you about your neighbor, Suzanne Medina.”

  I smiled. “So I’m not a suspect anymore?”

  “Did I say that?”

  The smile slid off my face. Did he think Suzanne was a credible suspect? I thought about her burglaries and all the times she’d snuck up on me, but that didn’t make her a murderer.

  “Okay. Let’s talk about Suzanne.”

  Detective Campbell flipped open his notebook just like they do on TV. “We know Ms. Medina had access to your manuscript. You can confirm she read it?”

  “Yes. Well, I think so. I mean, she gave me notes, but I didn’t sit there and watch her read it.”

  “So, yes. Good.” He riffled some pages before stopping at one. “Did you know Ms. Medina prior to living here?”

  “No.”

  “Were you aware she previously resided at the Mental Health Institute in Pueblo?”

  “The psychiatric hospital?”

  He nodded.

  “Why was she there?”

  “Let’s just say this isn’t her first brush with the law. She has a history of disruptive behavior.”

  I was flabbergasted. Sure, Suzanne was eccentric and odd, but this seemed beyond the pale. “Disruptive how?”

  Campbell glanced around as if to make sure we were alone, even though he knew very well we were. “She liked to sing in public.”

  “Sing? Like the buskers on the 16th Street Mall?”

  “No. Like skipping down the middle of the street at two in the morning screeching Pink Floyd.” He closed his notepad and sipped his coffee. “Ah, good brew. Nice and dark. When I’m retired I’m going to drink good coffee every day, not that swill they have at the station.”

  So regardless of the tax base, workplace coffee sucked. I’d have to tell Lance it wasn’t just his crappy precinct.

  “You’re retiring?” I asked.

  “Yep, six days”—he glanced at his watch—“five hours and eighteen minutes.”

  “Looking forward to it, I see.”

  “This’ll be my final case. Hopefully it won’t be like my last one.” A storm passed in front of his eyes. “Really put in the work on that one but the DA wouldn’t pursue.” He stared into his cup, then looked up and smiled. “This one’ll be different.”

  He sipped his coffee again, so I forced myself to sip mine too, wondering why he was really here. It didn’t seem proper police procedure to tell me about Suzanne’s history, plus he hadn’t asked me anything new. And he’d brought me coffee. My eyes widened and I looked at the floor. Was he hitting on me? I covered my embarrassment by taking too big a drink.

  “So, why’d you lie about your whereabouts the morning of Ms. Walter’s murder?”

  I choked on my coffee, finally managing to sputter, “I never lied!”

  Detective Campbell raised his eyebrows at me while he took another sip.

  I racked my brain. Damn. I’d forgotten to tell them about stopping for coffee, like Lance had reminded me to do. “Ohmygosh, I forgot to tell you I stopped for coffee at Espresso Yourself. It’s over there, across the street.” I pointed in that direction.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes! No! I got a muffin.”

  He stared at me.

  “A blueberry one.”

  Still stared.

  “With streusel.”

  He kept staring and I felt a trickle of sweat run down the middle of my back.

  “Why’d you get a muffin if you were having breakfast with your agent?”

  I groaned. “I lied about that to my critique group because with my tremor, I always spill on myself and they tease me because I have to change clothes so often. I spilled that morning but I wasn’t up for their jokes.”

  “And what about that loud argument at Mr. Rabbinowitz’s apartment the night of the murder?”

  The booty call fight. I tensed. “What does that have to do with anything? People in a relationship fight.”

  “Especially if their murder plot goes wrong.”

  “What?” The trickle of sweat turned into rushing snowmelt. Was this an ambush?

  Campbell again stared at me over the top of his cup. Then he grinned. “Listen. I don’t think you killed your agent. I’m sure it’s probably Ms. Medina.”

  Probably? Was this guy for real? He was clearly just punching the clock, counting down the minutes until his retirement. And why was he here without his partner? Again, I felt my face redden and fought to keep my temper. Was Campbell trying to railroad Suzanne? He was burned out on this case and she was the path of least resistance. I thought of my brother and all the good, diligent cops in the world. They’d never think of picking the low-hanging fruit. Sure, Suzanne was eccentric and broke into bookstores, and maybe even had done a stint locked up in a loony bin. But since when did that mean she killed Melinda? She didn’t have a motive before, and she still didn’t have one now. And if they arrested her for it, then there would still be a murderer out there, perhaps stalking me.

  I finally managed to speak. “So you’ve cleared everyone else who read my manuscript?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” He waved away my question like it was an annoying gnat.

  “You talked to Sheelah’s dentist, AmyJo’s sister, and the photographer at the Pleasure Center for Armadillos concert?”

  “Absolutely.” Campbell slid his pen through the spiral of his notebook. “Everything checked out.”

  I offered him some of Barb’s walnut-laced cookies to buy myself some time to think. “That photographer was something else, right? What was her name? Guadalupe Hernandez? I could barely understand her, that accent was so heavy.” Guadalupe Hernandez was a girl I went to high school with. She spoke with perfect diction and had no hint of an accent. Why her name popped into my head, I’ll never know. But it was a little bit genius.

  “I used a translator. Don’t want anything amiss when it goes to the DA.”

  I slid my hands under my thighs. He was outright lying about investigating Melinda’s murder. This was way beyond withholding a few facts or keeping your cards close to your vest. This was laziness. Fabrication. Dereliction of duty.

  My pulse quick
ened, as did my breathing. “Remind me what time frame you’re concentrating on?”

  “Ms. Walter parked her car late Sunday, left her house around seven Monday morning, and was found dead soon after that.”

  “Well, then, it can’t be Suzanne. She was with me.” Reputation be damned.

  “Weren’t you with your boyfriend? Kinky.”

  “After he left, I couldn’t sleep. It was only around midnight. I heard Suzanne next door, so I asked her to … help me move some stuff to my storage unit. I’d been putting it off, and since we were both wide awake, it seemed like as good a time as any to do it.” I tried to picture the inside of my unit. Please, please, please don’t ask me what we moved there. I added, “That’s when I spilled on myself. At the storage unit. With Suzanne. We were there all night.” Oh, why did I say all that? It was so easily checked. And would they really believe I’d worn the same clothes the next day? I glanced down at my shirt. Probably.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Campbell pulled the pen from the spiral loop on his notebook.

  “I forgot. It’s not every day that I get accused of murder.” Which was, of course, all the more reason to have mentioned it. I hoped he would overlook that.

  “Why didn’t Ms. Medina tell us?”

  “You said yourself she was crazy.”

  The detective stood and pocketed his notebook and pen, leaving his cup on the table. “I guess this requires a follow-up conversation with her.”

  I was eighty-seven percent sure Suzanne didn’t kill Melinda, but one hundred percent sure Campbell was not doing his job. I couldn’t let him keep doing this to her simply because he wanted to create a slam-dunk before his retirement swan song.

  “What was Suzanne’s motive?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Why does anyone kill anyone?” He zipped his parka and left my apartment. I heard him knock on Suzanne’s door.

  He knocked again, louder.

  I looked out the window and saw him walking toward the parking lot. I was relieved that Suzanne wasn’t home, because if she didn’t corroborate the alibi I’d created for her, Campbell would probably be marching both of us off in handcuffs right now.

  When he reached the edge of the building, an eddy of snow swirled around him and walked him to his car. The dark sky belied the daytime hour, and the snow fell harder. Shadows danced around the corners of the buildings, but I didn’t know whether it was the wind playing tricks or something—or someone—else.

  Watching Campbell drive away created a knot of both relief and anxiety in the pit of my stomach. There was an immediate knock on the door. I opened it to Suzanne.

  “I thought you weren’t home.”

  “I’m a klepto, not an imbecile. I know when to dodge a cop. Especially one who wants to verify a fake alibi.”

  “You heard?”

  “I hear everything that goes on in your apartment, love. I know you pay for Don and Barb’s housecleaning. I know you have a bit of a problem with lactose. And I know that you and Ozzi don’t really watch late-night TV even though it’s on.”

  I blushed. “I never hear you.”

  “I don’t have a hot boyfriend.” Suzanne plopped herself on my couch. “And now you know my secrets. So tell me. What did we put in your storage unit and how long did it take us?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Suzanne, I’m only going to ask you this once. And you better tell me the truth.”

  “Or else what?”

  “I don’t know. But you better tell me the truth.” I took a deep breath. “Did you have anything to do with Melinda Walter’s death?”

  “Don’t be a ninny. Of course I didn’t.” She eyed the chocolate oatmeal cookies on the table. “Can I?”

  I stared at her, then collapsed into the chair. “Be my guest.” I watched her take enthusiastic bites. “I believe you.”

  “Duh.”

  “Now go away so I can think.”

  She gestured toward the plate.

  “Yes. Fine. Take them.”

  When she closed the door behind her, I called Lance. While I waited for him to answer, I glanced uneasily at the vent and wondered how well Suzanne really heard what went on in here.

  “Charlee, I can’t talk.”

  “Not an option right now. Detective Campbell came to see me.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s not doing his job. I’ve investigated Melinda’s death more than he has. He’s convinced my neighbor Suzanne did it.”

  “And?”

  “And she didn’t do it. And the real killer is still out there. And maybe after me. And it’s not random—it has to be somebody I know. And it’s not my imagination. And you have to call Campbell and see what’s going on. He’s railroading an innocent person. Somebody needs to solve this crime. Preferably somebody with a badge.”

  My brother didn’t respond.

  “Lance, it’s not my imagination.”

  “It probably is, but I can’t do anything anyway. I’m not supposed to have any contact with you—”

  “But you never told me why.”

  “—or anyone on this case. I’m on desk duty. Chief got a call making … allegations about me … ”

  “What kind of allegations?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Tell me. You know I’m not letting this drop. It sounds serious. Is it serious?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “Tell me. I won’t breathe a word. You know I won’t.”

  “Three anonymous calls this week. Maybe from the same person, maybe not. Said I bought booze one night on shift and drove away drinking it. Said I offered to get someone out of a ticket in exchange for a—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “—sexual favor. And,” he took a deep breath, “that I’m covering up for you in the murder of your agent by tainting evidence.”

  “What evidence? What are they talking about? You haven’t done any of that!”

  “I know. And I hope Chief knows. But until it’s all straightened out, I’m pushing papers and getting coffee.” Pause. “Charlee, you can’t say anything about this and you can’t help me. I’ll do what I can to find out about Detective Campbell, but I’m warning you, it won’t be much. And you shouldn’t get too deep into this either.”

  “I have to do what I have to do. And you do too. You be careful, Lance. This is your career. Everything you’ve always worked for.”

  “You be careful too, Space Case. Everything will be fine, but still. And call Mom. She’s worried. But she doesn’t know anything about this. Keep it that way.”

  “Okay.”

  My mind whirled with questions, finally landing on one: maybe whoever was trying to frame me was also trying to ruin Lance’s career. Who did we know who hated us both that much?

  I hung up and dialed Mom, almost relieved when she didn’t answer. Otherwise I knew I’d start crying or blabbing. “Hi, Mom. Sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” I said to the voicemail, “but it’s been a bit crazy with all this. I’m fine, though. I’ve got … Lance and AmyJo and Ozzi. There’s nothing you can do from Santa Fe but I’ll call you when I have any news. Lance is fine too.” I squinched my face, wishing I could grab those words back. She’d see right through that and know he wasn’t fine. Mom Radar worked in person, over the phone, and probably in the vacuum of deep space. “Okay, talk to you later.”

  I fiddled with the phone in my hand. If Lance couldn’t help me

  with Detective Campbell, there was only one other person who could. Detective Ming-like-the-vase. I hadn’t spoken to him since that first day, and I tried to put my finger on why I didn’t trust him. That smarmy slicked-back hair, for one thing. But I couldn’t come up with anything else.

  I called and was put on hold for a long time. It gave me time to rehearse what I wanted to s
ay, for a change. When he finally answered, I said, “Detective Ming? It’s Charlee Russo. Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s about Detective Campbell. When he came over a little while ago—”

  “Today?”

  “Yes. He brought me coffee this morning and wanted to ask me some more questions.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “It’s just … well, it seems like he’s already decided that my neighbor Suzanne Medina is guilty of Melinda’s murder, but he hadn’t talked to some of the people I’ve talked to, so it seems like maybe he’s jumping the gun a little?”

  “You’ve been talking to people?”

  “Um … yes?”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone who read my manuscript. Melinda’s mechanic. Sheelah’s dentist. The photographer for Pleasure Center for Armadillos.”

  “I see.”

  I see was not a helpful phrase right now. I wasn’t even sure he did see. “Detective Ming, I don’t want to tell either of you how to do your job, but in my opinion, based on what I’ve seen and what he’s told me, Detective Campbell is not being thorough in his investigation, and I’m worried that he’s zeroed in on an innocent person and that the real killer may go free.”

  “Are you making a complaint against Detective Campbell?”

  “No, of course not.” Was I? Allegations like this could jam him up just like the ones against Lance. I didn’t want that hanging on my conscience. “No, no official complaint. But can you just check into things and make sure he’s going by the book?”

  “Miss Russo, Detective Campbell has been on the job for a very long time. He has solved many a murder and sent lots of bad guys to prison. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Of course he does. But he’s also really close to retirement and he told me about his last case that the DA threw out. He said he worked hard on it but they declined to pursue it. Isn’t it possible that left a bad taste in his mouth? And since this will probably be his last case, isn’t it possible he’s cutting corners so he won’t feel so invested if they decline to pursue this one too?”