Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  “Those are some pretty heavy-duty allegations, and I certainly hope you haven’t voiced them anywhere else. I suggest you let Detective Campbell do his job—”

  “That’s the point! I don’t think he is.”

  “If you’re not going to make an official complaint, I think this conversation is over. Good day, Miss Russo.”

  My mind wandered back through my conversation with Campbell that morning. Was Ming right? Was Campbell doing a good job? A doubt-spiral slowly pulled me down, like a slo-mo undersea whirlpool. Before it lugged me all the way down, though, I kicked and fought my way back to the surface.

  Campbell wasn’t doing his job. Suzanne didn’t kill Melinda. My determination to figure it out strengthened.

  Ming didn’t see at all.

  Twenty

  More weird dreams and continued poor sleep plagued me all night. This time, I dreamed a gigantic Denver Post knocked on my door and swallowed me whole, cackling and rattling its pages like a hurricane. I woke up sweating, shaking, and longing for Ozzi.

  When I heard the huge Sunday paper thump against my front door, almost four hours after it was due, I retrieved it. The storm had blown in with a vengeance and covered everything with at least a foot of heavy, wet snow. In places, the wind had drifted it to mid-thigh. The summer-like blue sky belied the arctic air. No wonder the paper was late.

  There hadn’t been any articles the past few days with my name mentioned, and I hoped the same held true today.

  I tore the paper from its orange plastic sleeve, pulling out the front section and flattening it on my kitchen table. Hope was a fickle thing, and it didn’t take long to find a new article about me. Front page. Below the fold. This time it was illustrated with a graphic my publisher had put together for my last book tour—my photo centered above my newest

  release, Pursued to Death, with the dates and locations of my official signings in each corner. I’d hated that poster then, and I especially hated it now. They say all publicity is good publicity, but that can’t be true. I thought about the phone call with Penn & Powell’s attorney and my stomach lurched. My career was probably over anyway.

  I read the article.

  Embezzlement Investigation Continues. Most of it was my bio and career information, pulled verbatim from my website. Then a recap of Melinda’s murder—still no mention of the mercury—and a reiteration of the royalty dispute already reported. Then a wildly inflated income bracket for me. I wish. And then, just like Jonathan Crier had promised, a lot of vague non-news, all attributed to anonymous sources.

  I folded the paper and shoved away from the table to have a nice, self-indulgent cry in the shower.

  My phone was dead—again—so I plugged it into the charger and texted AmyJo. She jumped at the chance to meet me at Espresso Yourself. I didn’t feel guilty asking her to drive on a day like this; she loved challenging her enormous pickup in deep snow. I guess that’s what happens when your brothers teach you to drive around the farm when you’re eleven.

  Personally, driving in weather like this scared me more than whatever bogeyman might be out to kill me. I had no control when driving on snow or ice, but at least when walking around, I could keep my guard up and have a modicum of control even on a snowy day like this. Plus, there was a bottomless cup of coffee and scrumptious non-walnut-y pastry waiting for me. Maybe two.

  Forty minutes later, hair dried, wearing clean jeans, a funky sweater, and tall boots over my jeans, I felt presentable enough to leave my apartment. I’d also pep-talked myself that walking to the coffee shop wasn’t likely to get me murdered. I wasn’t convinced, but again, I hoped luck was with me.

  I slid my phone and the newspaper into my messenger bag, bundled up, and set out for Espresso Yourself. Maybe I could find out if they’d had any recent break-ins.

  It would have been faster to cut through the apartment’s parking lot and move between the cars, but I’d seen enough movies to know that was a bad idea, pep talk or not. In fact, in one of my novels—Fragments of Fear—there was a chloroform abduction in a crowded parking lot. So I opted to tromp along the wide, curving sidewalk all the way around, wishing the maintenance crew had begun their snow removal on this side of the complex.

  The pedestrian gate on the south side of the complex stood open. I remembered the shadows yesterday when Detective Campbell left.

  I glanced around and saw nobody, yet there were footprints in the snow. There were only two sets: mine and another that disappeared just past the gate and over the snowy grass. Glancing into my bag, I pretended to search for something, but behind my sunglasses, I cut my eyes toward the disappearing tracks. There were no apartments over there, just some carports and storage units. Easily capable of hiding someone.

  I hurried through the gate, fighting with the drifted snow to close it behind me, but it wouldn’t latch. I fiddled with it, trying to make it look like the gate was locked even though I knew the next person through probably wouldn’t go to such trouble. I called the management office while I trudged through the snow. They weren’t open, so I left a message. “Hi. This is Charlee Russo. The pedestrian gate on the south side is broken. Can you get somebody out here to fix it today? I know it’s Sunday, but I pay for a secure building, and this doesn’t seem very secure. Thanks.” Even though it was a twenty-four-hour number, I wondered if they’d actually get the message today.

  The sign for Espresso Yourself beckoned, relaxing me a bit. As I crossed the street, I heard whimpering and froze in the center of the street. No cars. No people. I strained, listening, but heard nothing. Must have been my imagination. I got to the opposite curb and heard it again. A little louder. Coming from the buildings on my right.

  Every instinct told me it was a trap and to run into the warmth of the coffee shop for help, but I didn’t. It sounded too much like Peter O’Drool. I moved slowly, picking my way across the snowy sidewalk. When the noise stopped, I stopped.

  At the edge of a building, I crouched and peeked around the corner. Only the usual alley-way decorations: dumpsters, trash, a broken chair. I crouched there until my thighs burned, about twenty-two seconds. Shaking my head at my overactive imagination, I placed a palm against the wall for balance as I stood.

  BAM! Something came at me and knocked me clear to Thursday.

  I closed my eyes and flailed. Swung my bag. Kicked. Screeched. I scrambled backward into a snowbank on my already sore butt, bucking and twisting. No hands touched me. No voices spoke. When I felt like I’d settled, I braced myself and opened my eyes to my fate.

  Three inches from my face was the mangiest, filthiest, most pathetic looking dog I’d ever seen. Medium-sized, but for all I knew half of that was mud. Staring at me with intense brown eyes. I slowly scooted backward in the snow. The dog took two steps toward me. Silently stalking.

  “Shit,” I whispered to myself.

  The dog sat.

  We stared at each other. It repeated the whimpering sound I’d heard earlier.

  “What’s the matter … ” I bent to have a look-see. “Girl?” I held out my gloved hand for her to sniff. She placed her paw in it instead. I held out my other hand. She shook it too.

  “C’mere.”

  She came closer.

  Often during big snowstorms, dogs use drifted snow to climb over backyard fences and escape into the world. I felt around her neck for any collar or tags. Nothing. “What’s your name?”

  She cocked her head.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She cocked it again.

  I rubbed the sides of her face with some snow and revealed a caramel-colored coat. “Where do you live? Why are you out here?”

  She cocked her head twice more.

  I suddenly felt ridiculous trying to have a conversation with a dog. Using the wall and the dog’s head for support, I stood and brushed the snow off my butt. If I had to fall again, I was thankful to do i
t in a fluffy snow bank this time. Nothing felt any worse than it had when I woke up this morning, so I flung the strap of the messenger bag across my chest. The dog startled, ears back, and raced behind the dumpster.

  “I’m sorry! Come back. It’s okay.” I crouched and she peeked out, taking tentative steps toward me. I held out my hand and she barrelled toward me, again stopping three inches from my face.

  I straightened up and looked around. Behind us was the sandwich-board sign on the sidewalk in front of Espresso Yourself. Handwritten in green marker was the invitation, Come on in! It’s warm in here. The coffee is hot and the customers are cool. I’d seen other dogs inside. Probably very much against health codes, but as long as the dogs behaved, nobody seemed to care.

  I looked down at the dog and she looked up at me. Her tail flicked side to side, brushing the snow, but just a little at the tip, as if she didn’t want to hope for too much.

  “Come on. Your prayers are answered. I’ll introduce you to Lavar and Tuttle.” I hoped their generous spirit extended to filthy dogs and midlist mystery authors skewered in the press for a murder they didn’t commit.

  As I pulled open the door to swoon-worthy aromas of coffee, cinnamon, and sweet frosted delights, the dog hurried to a far corner. She turned three times and then settled in atop the heat register, nose buried in her tail, making herself right at home.

  Waiting my turn behind two other customers, I drifted away on the hum of conversation and the delectable aromas until I heard Tuttle holler from the back, “Sweet baby Jesus! They doubled our blueberry butter braid order. Maybe now we won’t run out.”

  “Charlee? The usual?”

  Fingers snapped in my face.

  “Girl, where you at?”

  “Sorry, Lavar.”

  “That’s okay. You got a lot on your mind. Nasty business, that.” He poured my coffee. “Still prayin’ for you. Even signed you up for a prayer bomb at church this morning.”

  “A prayer bomb?”

  “Yes’m. E’rebody prays for you at the same time. Whole congregation.” He pronounced it con-GREEEE-gation. “So if you feel the Spirit of the Lord at 4:15 this afternoon, you’ll know why.”

  “That’s sweet. Thanks, but wouldn’t that be more of a prayer balloon, if it’s going—” I jerked my head upward.

  Lavar followed my eyes and crossed himself. “I guess it’s both. Prayers go up and blessings come down.” He plucked a plastic-wrapped muffin from the display and held it up.

  “Can I have one of those blueberry butter braids? And a bacon mini quiche.” I dug for my wallet but he waved me away.

  “You got enough troubles.”

  “You read today’s paper, I take it.”

  He pressed a lid on the coffee and handed it to me, leaning close. “Had to. Told that reporter I’d only talk if he mentioned Espresso Yourself. Sumbitch never said a word.” He forced an extra quiche into my hand, tipping his chin toward the dog. “Nasty business,” he repeated. “Seems like somebody’s out to crucify you.”

  I sighed and thanked him, making way for the next customer. Suddenly the coffee shop seemed less friendly. If my pals would sell me out for a shout-out in the newspaper, what would my enemies do?

  I pulled out a chair at a table near the dog. She opened one eye as if to say, We okay here? I unwrapped one of the quiches and broke off a piece. I held it down and she delicately plucked it from my fingers. I unfolded a paper napkin and placed it near her, plopping the rest of the quiche onto it. She cocked her head. If she were a person she would have placed a hand over her powdered bosom and exclaimed in a Southern drawl, “I do declare! Is this for little ol’ me?”

  She nibbled at the quiche, clearly hungry but remembering her manners even so.

  I was less polite, inhaling my butter braid in three bites.

  I opened up the Denver Post again, avoiding the article about me on the front page. I just wanted some quality time to commune with my coffee and my newspaper. It’s not too much to ask. I leafed through the pages, getting caught up with the mundane and the horrific. So many times when I was reading an article I couldn’t help but think about the people involved. When they woke up they’d thought it was a regular day, like most of the other days in their life. But then a car slammed into them. Or they won the lottery. Or their business burned to the ground. Or they received a Nobel Prize.

  Or they were murdered.

  Or they were accused of murder.

  I shook my head, trying to get back to my quality time with my coffee and paper. Just a regular Sunday, like all the others in my life. Even last Sunday. A lifetime ago. I sipped and turned pages, reading articles I normally wouldn’t just to keep my mind off my own troubles.

  I gave the dog the second quiche, then stood to get her some water. Lavar used a damp cloth to wipe the counter.

  “Can I get her a cup with some water?” I asked.

  “Sure. When’d you get her?” Lavar filled a cup.

  “About three minutes before we walked in here.”

  He raised an eyebrow and handed me the cup.

  “Yeah, she was around the corner whimpering. No collar.” I looked back at the dog, watching while she licked the floor around the napkin and then settled back in, nose to tail.

  “Aren’t you in those apartments?” Lavar asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Do they allow pets?”

  “Nope. Not anymore.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Indeed.” I had no idea what I was going to do about the dog, but while there were no customers around I wanted to ask Lavar about any break-ins. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, though. I know this is none of my business, and I’ve been in the paper recently for criminal acts, but how secure is your business? Probably not like that. So, I have this friend who likes to steal books … Not like that either. Maybe I’ll have to rethink it.

  “Thanks for the water.” I picked up the cup from the counter and moved toward my table.

  Lavar said, “You know, maybe we could use a dog around here.”

  I turned back.

  He walked to the café doors that separated the kitchen and office area from the customer area. “Hey, King Tut! Double-time it out here.”

  Tuttle came in wiping his hands on a towel. He smiled at me, then immediately pursed his lips. “Hey, Charlee.”

  “Hey, Tut.”

  Lavar draped one arm around his beefy shoulders and leaned his head close. “Look at the customer on the floor over there.”

  Tuttle snapped up his head. “On the—?”

  Lavar pointed at the dog. “Can I keep her?”

  “Did she follow you home from school?”

  “No. But Charlee rescued her from a sad and lonely life on the mean streets and can’t keep her in her apartment.”

  Tuttle looked between me, Lavar, and the dog about four thousand times before saying, “Sure. We could use a … dog around the place.”

  I caught Lavar shooting Tuttle a look. Had he almost said “guard dog”?

  I laid a trap. “I’m not sure how good a guard dog she’ll be. She came right up to me even though she was scared and cold.”

  “Anything’s better than nothing,” Tuttle said. “We’ve had … some trouble.”

  “Tut! Shh.” Lavar peered around the coffee shop.

  “What?” Tell me all about the break-in, boys, so I can corroborate Suzanne’s alibi.

  “It’s nothing.” Lavar waved at Tuttle. “He be jumping at shadows.”

  Tuttle leaned close and whispered, “I think we have a ghost.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Nothing specific, but stuff seems to be moved around some mornings when I come in. Books shelved wrong, chairs moved, stuff missing. That kind of thing.”

  Lavar rolled his eyes. “It’s jus’ his imagination.”

&nb
sp; “Don’t you track inventory? Can’t you tell if something’s been stolen?” I asked.

  Lavar shrugged. “We don’t have what you’d call a system.” He used air quotes.

  “So, if someone broke in and stole your books, you’d never know it?”

  “If they stole all of them, I bet we’d figure it out.”

  Tuttle nodded. “Probably.”

  Oy vey. No slam-dunk corroboration of Suzanne’s alibi, but definitely tipping the scale closer. I leaned toward them and whispered, “You need more than a dog, boys,” before delivering the water to their new dog.

  I held it low enough so she could drink. “Found you a home but didn’t lock down the alibi,” I muttered. In baseball when you bat .500, it’s considered off-the-charts successful, but here it felt an awful lot like failure. When she finished drinking, I rubbed her velvety ears. “But I’ll get to see you whenever I want, so that’s something.” The dog closed her eyes and leaned into the ear rub. I wondered how she’d found herself out in the world. Clearly she’d been trained and loved by someone.

  “Lavar? Tut?” I waited while they turned toward me. “You should take her to the shelter or a vet and have her checked for a microchip. Someone might be missing this one.”

  “We were just talking about that. She needs a bath, too,” Tuttle said.

  At the word “bath,” the dog scrabbled on the linoleum, toenails looking for purchase as she tried to push herself further into the corner. I reached down to rub her ears again. “Not this minute, sweetie. Relax.”

  She did, but eyed Tuttle suspiciously.

  I went back to my newspaper and coffee. I turned pages in the Lifestyles section until I came to a full-page spread with photos of well-dressed local philanthropists posing in front of, and sometimes with, zoo animals. There was one of the Channel Nine news anchors each holding a ferret. An elephant hugging the governor with its trunk. Balding John Elway flanked by two enormous football players struggling to hold the ends of a huge snake draped around his neck. Jake Jabs with a tiger cub, perhaps one of his own. And last but not least, Kell, holding hands with a chimpanzee. I smiled. When did this fundraiser happen? Why hadn’t Kell mentioned it?