by Becky Clark
Some of the complex’s residents were heading toward Espresso Yourself for their daily grind before attempting their daily grind. At least I assumed they were residents. Some, perhaps, were in the midst of their walk of shame after an ill-advised one-night stand. I studied the bodies hunched against the morning chill, snow squeaking and crunching under their feet, to see if I could detect any of these unfortunate souls. But everyone looked the same—cold, cranky, and pressed for time.
The wind had kicked up and I clutched my celery-colored travel mug of coffee as I stepped from the sidewalk, head lowered against the blowing snow. I heard an engine rev to my left and raised my eyes. An SUV swerved around me at the last second. I stopped, hoping the driver saw my hands-up apology for not watching for traffic, expecting something similar in return. The car sped up, the driver never even glancing my way.
No acknowledgment at all? And he’d sped up. If this was one of my novels, I would make it clear the driver had purposely tried to run me down. But was this like fiction? Lately the line had kept blurring for me. Had someone just tried to run me down? Same as in Dave and Veta’s neighborhood? I thought back to all my jumping at shadows and noises. There were explanations for all of them: Suzanne popping up unexpectedly, rabbits, that stray dog, maintenance men in the complex, jokers writing messages in the dirt on my car. All logical. My imagination was playing tricks on me and working overtime. But none of that eased the knot in my stomach. I hurried to my car, head on a swivel.
Even though I’d parked only a couple of hours earlier, my windows had iced over. I tramped around to the passenger side to ferret out the long-handled scraper I kept under the seat. I opened the door and saw the gigantic trash bag of Goodwill donations. Still there. I could drop it off on my way. I situated my coffee in the cupholder and then thrashed around, feeling with one arm for the scraper. I found it, dragged it out, and dropped my messenger bag on the floor in front of the Goodwill donation.
I worked up a sweat scraping, then slipped into the driver’s seat. I took a sip of coffee and checked the clock on the dashboard. No time to swing by Goodwill after all, despite not having to stop at Espresso Yourself this morning thanks to Ozzi’s gift of ground coffee from the grocery store.
I backed out of my parking space, bumping over the icy moguls I hoped would melt before July, and waited for a steady line of cars to pass. I took the opportunity to sip until a good Samaritan in a dark SUV finally took pity and waved me in. I hurriedly replaced my travel mug in the cupholder and swung into the lane, at the same time trying to bring up my hand in thanks. I hoped they saw, since I couldn’t see through their tinted windows.
As I drove through the parking lot, I thought about the SUV that had almost hit me. The driver didn’t really try to run me down, did he? We’d never made eye contact, so maybe he never actually saw me. Ozzi got that way sometimes when he was thinking about work. More than once I’d seen him let a perfectly chilled beer get warm while he stared into space, mulling some computer problem. When he returned to earth, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gone. Maybe this snowy morning was like that for some other driver. I hoped they would snap out of it before something bad happened.
The streets became more and more major, yet not completely plowed, as I made my way through Aurora. I loved the diversity of the area. Colorado is very Caucasian, but my zip code had bodegas, Asian markets, authentic ethnic restaurants of every stripe, and was home to a huge Muslim population. Of course, it also had a notorious red-light district, plenty of meth houses, and an often large and unruly homeless population.
I wondered again about Daryl living behind Espresso Yourself. What was his story? How long had he been there? How long had he and Suzanne been friendly? What could I do for him?
I reached the freeway on-ramp and began to slow down sooner than I normally would because of the icy road. I crawled to a stop behind three cars at the ramp meter. I sipped my coffee. Still half-full, and I was halfway to Kell’s. Perfect. More cars lined up behind me. Was that the same SUV that almost hit me? I peered through my rearview mirror but couldn’t tell. Probably not. SUV is the new black, I decided. The new fashion vehicle. They were everywhere and probably all had those tinted windows.
The meter turned green for me and I gently stepped on the gas. My rear end fishtailed on the slick pavement. My coffee jostled in the cupholder while I got a rush of adrenaline. The freeway was crowded but flowed smoothly, since people were taking it easy with the road conditions. “Slow and steady wins the race,” I reminded myself.
As I glanced back to check the freeway traffic, I saw the SUV behind me. I merged, took control of the lane like I was taught, and glanced behind to change lanes. The SUV was still right behind me. I changed lanes again. So did the SUV.
Almost as soon as I was traveling in my comfort zone—fast, but not overly so, in the fast lane—I came up on a Volkswagen driving well below the speed limit, even for the imperfect conditions. Texas plates. Figures. Scared of a little snow. I tapped my brakes but got a tad too close to their rear bumper, to make sure they knew I was there and not entirely happy with their choices this morning.
They didn’t seem to care what I thought, so I passed them on the right and slipped back into the fast lane. So did the SUV. Weird. I flashed back to my book Pursued to Death, where the killer stalked my poor victim mercilessly until finally running her off the road. But that was set in a rural area, not a busy city freeway. But still. If somebody caused an accident and then sped off, I doubted any of these people would know what had happened. Everyone was in their own little bubble. The SUV was creeping me out, though, always behind me that way.
I increased my speed in the fast lane to pass a Honda traveling in the lane to my right, then eased in front of it, almost equidistant between it and a Subaru hatchback.
The SUV slid in behind the Honda even though the fast lane was clear. I watched to see if they were in the process of easing over toward the exit coming up. Nope. Knuckles white on my steering wheel, I decided to take the exit. I made a last-second dash for it, making other drivers hit their brakes as I stole the merge. I slid across two lanes to the off-ramp.
My coffee flew from the inadequate cupholder and bounced off the bag for Goodwill. The lid flew the opposite direction. “Dammit!” Warmth from the coffee spread over my right knee.
At the bottom of the exit, the light was green at the cross street. Knowing I couldn’t stop to make a turn without sliding, I continued straight through, to the on ramp on the other side to get back on the freeway. Smart, I thought. I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. I’d have to remember this for my next book. I merged back into freeway traffic, which was a bit lighter now, it seemed. I glanced back to change lanes.
The SUV was behind me again.
I peered through my mirror. Was it the same car? My imagination had been working overtime this past week. Was this another example? My eyes darted back and forth between it and the traffic in front of me. It seemed like the same one, but I was heading toward the Stepford suburbs where every soccer mom drove an SUV. I glanced to my left. Blue SUV. In front of it a green one. Two more black ones. Another blue one up ahead to my right.
But none of them with tinted windows like that. My imagination flared and my heart raced. That SUV was definitely following me. My tremor increased with my adrenaline and I gripped the wheel tighter. I made another last-minute, fishtailing dart across traffic to the next exit. It might have been the only time in my life I wished a cop would pull up behind me. I had to swerve to the right around the traffic slowing at Hampden Avenue.
The light was red, but I barely slowed as I turned right, glancing left to look for cars coming through the intersection. The visibility was bad, but I didn’t see anyone and prayed it was true. I slid across two lanes and held my breath that any cars coming would see me. A blast of a horn told me they did and were none too happy about it.
If I kept going
west, I’d hit University in a few miles. I could take it north, toward Lance’s precinct. I was sure there was probably a closer police station, but I knew exactly where Lance’s was. And if he was there, even better.
The roads were better plowed on the west side of the city, or perhaps they hadn’t received as much snow, and I could see large patches of asphalt. I breathed a bit easier as I dodged through traffic, glad most people were at work or school already. It made it easier to travel. But also easier for a stalker to spot me.
The traffic light ahead changed and cars slowed in front of me. I stepped on the brake but it didn’t depress. I wasn’t sliding, but I was hurtling toward the cars at full speed. A sedan with a Baby on Board sign loomed in front of me. In desperation, I stomped my foot on the brake so hard I thought it would go through the floorboard. I yanked the wheel to the right to avoid a rear-end collision, and barely missed both the sedan and the honking Jeep in the right lane.
Everything was at a standstill at the red light, my car angled across two lanes. I released my white-knuckled grip on my steering wheel and felt around the brake pedal until I found shards of a smashed celery-colored travel mug. I refused to look at the driver of the Jeep, already knowing he was livid, and dropped the plastic pieces on the floor in front of the Goodwill bag.
The light changed and I pulled the rest of the way in front of the Jeep. I drove slowly, still shaky. Glancing around, I didn’t see the SUV. I’d lost them.
As I traveled past the businesses on the opposite side of the intersection, a blush crept up my neck even though I was alone in the car. That SUV hadn’t been following me. Just a coincidence. My over-active imagination. The stress of the last week. I exhaled slowly, sending up thanks that I hadn’t hit anyone but furious at myself, and at that crazy SUV, for terrifying me.
Coming up on University forced a decision. To the right, to Lance’s precinct? To the left, to Kell’s and the critique group? I checked behind and still didn’t see any sign of the SUV.
Left.
I bumped into Kell’s driveway ten minutes late.
Twenty-Five
Writing group was a bust. I suffered the acute humiliation of waltzing in with coffee soaked into my right pantleg from knee to ankle. We were all awkward around each other. AmyJo tried to cheerlead us through breakfast, but none of us knew what to say. The weight of the last week smothered us. We gulped down food, then raced through each perfunctory critique and response, no unnecessary words. Even worse, I didn’t get to cross Einstein or Heinrich off my list because neither of them showed up.
I returned to my apartment just in time to see a police officer protect Suzanne’s head as he guided her into the back of a squad car. The officer glared at me, and then he and his partner got in and drove away. Suzanne stared straight ahead.
I dialed my brother as I raced inside.
Voicemail.
“Lance, when you get this, call me right away. They just arrested Suzanne.”
I paced around my apartment trying to figure out what to do or who to call. Suzanne needed me to find the real killer before this went any further. But how?
I grabbed my list of suspects. Einstein, Heinrich, and Henry.
I removed the business card tacked to my kitchen corkboard and dialed the phone. I asked for Detective Ming.
“Campbell.”
“Detective Campbell? There’s been a mistake. I asked for Detective Ming.”
“Who is this?”
I debated hanging up. “It’s Charlee Russo. Did you have Suzanne Medina arrested? She didn’t kill Melinda Walter.”
“Oh?”
“She didn’t.”
“Then who did?” I heard his chair squeak under his bulk as if he’d put his feet up on his desk.
“Melinda’s husband, Henry.” I said emphatically.
Campbell barked out an ugly guffaw. “Nope. Airtight alibi.”
“Just like Suzanne.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he laughed again. “At your storage unit with you.”
“My investigation—”
“Your what?”
“Well, I’m not investigating, per se, but as you can imagine, this has hit me quite close to home, and … ” If there were such a thing as irritated breathing, I was hearing it on the other end of the phone, so I rushed on. “Everyone who had access to my manuscript had means and opportunity. Some had motive, and I’ve been trying to ascertain”—ascertain? I sound like Hercule Poirot—“who had alibis and who did not.”
I held my breath, half expecting him to tell me to sit tight because I was the one without an alibi and I might have lied to a detective and they’d be right over with the handcuffs and the dreaded perp walk.
Instead, Campbell said, “Well, aren’t you just the cutest little Miss Marple.”
That stung. I was much closer in age to Nancy Drew.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” he said. “What have you found out? Who have you exonerated? Give me your briefing.”
Momentarily flustered that he wanted to hear my thoughts, I searched my notes. I flipped through the pages of the yellow legal pad and tried to read through all the scribblings. “I don’t think Melinda killed herself. My boyfriend Ozzi was at work. His sister Bubbles, er, Beulah, spent the night with their mom. Dave and Veta Burr had people over and then went to bed, which I know isn’t a good alibi, but really, they didn’t have any motive to kill her and their garage door squeaks so loudly you probably could’ve heard it all the way to Kansas if they left that night, so I crossed them off.” I realized I was talking too fast, which might sound like babbling, but if I had his attention even for a minute, I wanted to keep it. Maybe I could even convince him it wasn’t Suzanne. “His boss told me Joaquin, that mechanic, had an alibi. And in my critique group, Kell was on a plane from Chicago, Sheelah was in the emergency room and then at her dentist’s office, AmyJo was babysitting her nieces, and Jenica won tickets and backstage passes to the Fillmore Theater. Oh, and Cordelia’s security system was on all night. And cameras. They show nobody came or went. And Queue Quaid has an alibi too, as you know.” I kept quiet about Einstein and Heinrich.
“You’ve done good work, Miss Marple, but we knew all that within forty-eight hours of the murder.”
I wanted to say yes, but that’s your job, but I bit my tongue.
“There were other suspects and, as you know, actually an arrest this morning,” he added.
It felt like he was playing with me. He was the quarterback and I was the football he was nonchalantly tossing in the air.
“Yes. But I’m trying to tell you, I know for a fact Suzanne Medina didn’t kill anyone.”
“You know this for a fact, eh?”
“I told you, we were together that night.”
“So you did.”
“That only leaves Melinda’s husband.” I wanted to ask about Heinrich and Einstein but couldn’t bring myself to do so.
Campbell paused. “We’ve arrested someone. And it wasn’t Henry Walter. Draw your own conclusion.”
“But what about—”
“This has been loads of fun, Ms. Russo, but my coffee break is over, so I must—”
“Wait. On that website about Melinda and her rejections, the one Q is the webmaster for, there are a ton of deleted comments that probably describe really nasty things people want—wanted—to do to Melinda.” I had a twinge of remorse. “Have you looked into them?”
“Ms. Russo, whether you want to believe it or not, we are good at our jobs over here. Been doing them a long time.”
Maybe so long you’re jaded and burned out?
“But did you?”
“Of course we did. Your manuscript was nowhere to be found on that server. Nobody on the forum read anything about mercury poisoning, at least not from your manuscript.”
“Aha! So somebody could have—”
“But—”
“One last time, Ms. Russo. We made an arrest. Goodbye.”
But the person you arrested didn’t do it.
Twenty-Six
I stared into the distance for a long time after my conversation with Detective Campbell, finally drawing a line through Henry Walter’s name on my suspect list. I fiddled with the pen, trying to picture Suzanne, his suspect, or Einstein or Heinrich, mine, killing Melinda. I couldn’t do it.
My new art museum postcard was hanging crooked so I went over to straighten it, accidentally knocking it to the floor. I picked it up and studied it. When I’d brought it home and taped the art mat to it, I’d obscured some of the written description of the exhibit. So instead of reading about the missing German art, I simply saw missing German and thought of Heinrich.
When I’d first chosen the postcard, both of the reproductions on it seemed to convey jaunty characters from the flapper era. But now, the cigar-smoker in Wilhelm Lachnit’s work stared straight at me with black, beady eyes, and his wife seemed indifferent to him, looking away even though they were side by side leaning out the window. In the other work, the one by Hans Christoph, the man was cutting his eyes to the side, decidedly shifty. His spouse’s eyes could barely be seen. The man looked like Heinrich, with his round glasses and ever-present cigar.
