by Claire Kane
KZTB’s most colorful personality looked pleadingly at Lacey, and placed a hand on her arm. “I just want to talk. Please, Lacey. I can’t do that here. There’s so much noise and so many lights it hurts my head,” she said. “Come with me? I’ve got a freezer full of comfort food. Plenty to share.”
Lacey felt more compassion, remembering how the woman was there for her at Victor’s memorial, and even later that night with a cake. The other thought to pop into her mind was how Greg gloated over having scored with the anchorwoman “a few times.” Deborah must have been devastated… But Lacey really didn’t want to be distracted from her goal. Not tonight. She was so close to getting answers.
“My car’s still down in the garage. I can’t really get to it right now.” Lacey demurred.
“Mine’s out on the street,” the other woman said, gesturing. “Please, Lacey? Night crew will be fine without you. You were never even on it. You don’t even work for the station anymore.”
Lacey bit her lip. “Can we make it here and back in a half hour?”
Deborah’s eyes shone with pain and rejection.
Lacey tried again. “Or, at least before the night is out?”
Deborah turned away and began stalking toward her car. “You could have just said, ‘No, Debbie, you can suffer alone.’ I could have accepted that.”
Lacey sighed inside, and rolled her eyes. “Wait. Deborah. I’ll come with you.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
But Lacey had already caught up, falling in alongside her staggering coworker. “I’m sorry, Deborah. Now please tell me you have some Ben and Jerry’s at home.”
Through her tears, the brunette cracked a smile. “Whole gallons.” They shared a quiet laugh, then slipped into Deborah’s car, waiting for a KZTB van to pass, and then headed into the night.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Deborah’s apartment was heaven to the hell of the KZTB basement. Though Lacey still ached all over, she couldn’t deny the softness of Deborah’s overstuff suede couch, or the way the ivory carpet felt as it massaged her bare feet. The place smelled like a peach orchard, and colorful sconces and lamps provided the perfect accent to the place. Lacey found she was almost jealous of the woman’s interior decorating skills.
“I’d offer you chocolate syrup,” Deborah said, as she emerged from the kitchen bearing two pints of ice cream, “but…”
Lacey nodded knowingly, and graciously accepted the ice cream from her former coworker, who had since calmed considerably. She pulled off the plastic seal, and took a tentative bite of the stuff, then moaned happily. “Oh, this is so good, Deborah.”
“Debbie, please. My close friends call me Debbie.”
Lacey smiled, more to hide her nerves than anything. “Debbie. Thank you. You were going to tell me about Greg.”
Deborah shuddered, and went quiet, then took a large bite of ice cream. A sudden knock at the door caused her to drop the whole pint. She exclaimed, but hurried to the door, and peered through the peephole. Lacey quickly rose, wincing, and made for the kitchen, where she grabbed a dishrag, wetted it, then stepped back into the living room to clean the spill.
“Oh, Lacey,” Debbie said, stepping away from the door, “you don’t have to do that.”
Lacey glanced up at her, then at the door. “It’s fine. Who was at the door?”
Deborah frowned. “A couple of men. I think they were religious people or something. I’m not going to answer.” As if on cue, the men knocked again. “Act like no one’s home,” the brunette whispered. “I’ll go get something to help you clean.” After a moment, Lacey heard footsteps fade away outside, then there was a knock on the door across the stairwell. Before she could think on it further, Deborah was down on her knees beside Lacey, scrubbing at the rich, brown stain. From the corner of her eye, Lacey noticed a small blood stain spreading on the woman’s pant leg.
“Debbie?” she said. “What happened? You’re hurt?”
Deborah continued to scrub for a moment as if she hadn’t heard Lacey. Then, without preamble, said, “I loved Greg. He was a wonderful man.” She stood with a small grunt, and turned back toward the kitchen. “I need a towel.”
Lacey continued to scrub, but something inside her turned cold. She hadn’t seen Victor since she’d been carried away. Her killer was probably already at the KZTB tower, searching for her in vain. Her backup plan even seemed to be coming apart, but she wouldn’t let herself think about it. Her once-boss had been murdered, and she had too, and here she was, eating ice cream at the home of someone she barely knew? She needed to get out. She needed to get back to—
A rolled cloth whipped around her neck, and jerked her backward, nearly lifting her fully off the ground. A wicked kick to the back of her knee kept her from rising. Something hard blasted into her head and sent her face first into the carpet. Deborah dropped onto her, knocking the wind out of Lacey, and leaving her stunned. She was pulled up again, her back arching painfully.
“I loved Greg Mendoza,” Deborah hissed in her ear. “More than that stupid leech of a wife did. More than you did, more than anyone.” She twisted the garrote tighter. Lacey, still not fully recovered from her ordeal in the basement, found her vision already going gray around the edges. “I understood him. He needed me.”
Lacey couldn’t get words out. She clutched at the towel, desperate to clear her airpipe even a little. She thought of Victor, of all he had done for her to keep her alive. She thought of Nainai, for whom she’d been allowed to cheat death to care for. The thought gave her strength, but not enough to do more than halfway topple Deborah.
Deborah quickly righted herself and squeezed tighter, causing Lacey’s eyes to bulge. “You thought your little trips to Japan would make him fall in love with you, didn’t you?”
Lacey kicked and rolled and squirmed, but every action ate up precious oxygen, and her supply was dwindling twice in the same night. Naked panic started to take over, and, against her will, she felt herself beginning to thrash. But it was useless. The other woman held fast. Lacey felt tears slip down her face, and terror begin to overtake her like it hadn’t even in the boiler room when she was sure she was going to die—and actually had. Nainai may never know that her only granddaughter had been murdered just across town. Images of the old woman worrying herself literally to death appeared in Lacey’s mind; and for whatever reason, silly guilt arose for not yet having put up a new lucky cat.
“It was worth it, though,” Deborah continued. “Following you to Tokyo. Stalking your boyfriend until I found his apartment. He was too dumb to even realize I’d broken in. And that ring he got you? Pathetic. Greg dropped twenty-two grand on mine. And then I lost it in the apartment fire. Your boyfriend must have made it fall out of my pocket when he tried fighting back.” She barked a short, harsh laugh. “He was so pathetic. And the poison hit him so fast. You at least survived.”
“Anyway, you were going to steal my man, and steal my show. I couldn’t let that happen. I don’t know how you survived that cake. And you got lucky in the basement; I could barely see to shoot. Well, I’ll make sure to send you to your cute boyfriend this time.”
Her voice took on a mock tone of penitence. “It’s too bad he had to die. He may have been stupid, but he was a hunk.” Her voice hardened again. “So was Greg. But if I can’t have him, no one can. Strangulation may take longer than a gunshot, but it doesn’t leave blood stains like the ones I got on my black outfit tonight. How dare you shoot me?”
By now, Deborah’s words seemed as though they came from the far end of a metal tunnel. Lacey’s muscles ached from lack of oxygen, and she felt her resistance growing weaker. She would miss Nainai, even if she got to see Victor again. For a moment, she thought she did see him, standing there, worried, but still smiling. Maybe Ms. Tibbits had been wrong about her not dying tonight.
The front door burst open. “Police! Hands in the air!”
At once, the weight was gone from Lacey, and she pulled in a deep, glorious breat
h that made her head swim. As she lay gasping on the floor, she half heard, half saw Deborah throw herself at the police, clawing, kicking, and screeching. There was a wrestle, but two officers finally got her cuffed, hands and feet.
Light and life returned to Lacey, and she managed to roll awkwardly on to her back, and decided that a good nap might just be in order. If she’d had any doubts about the identity of her killer, Deborah McMahon had now neatly solved those for her.
The unhinged woman kept demanding of the officers, “How could you know? How?”
A bruised but beautiful Lacey Ling fingered the hidden mic at her red dress’s bust.
Her cameraman hurried in behind the cops. Quickly kneeling at her side, he said, “The sound quality wasn’t great, but we got most of what she said. How’d you know you’d need someone following you?”
Lacey merely shook her head, and pointed at her throat, but she knew, somehow, that the hunch she’d gotten wasn’t of her own making. Maybe Victor was still looking out for her after all.
The camera guy nodded, knowingly. “You’re lucky we found you. We knocked on several doors before we figured it out. We even hit this one twice.” With that, he helped her up, and out toward the waiting police.
In a roundabout way, things worked out. With a little help from Heaven, she had just put three cases of murder to rest.
An unexpected but undeniable feeling washed over her. Somehow, she knew that Victor had finally passed into Heaven. The revelation brought peace. She thought of just how much he’d done for her from even beyond the grave, and it made her smile. Glancing upward, she blew a little kiss. “Thanks, my sweet ex. I’ll miss you.”
EPILOGUE
“I’ll be back in about an hour,” Lacey told her grandmother as she slipped on some flats for once, black and sparkly. “I’ll get you a lucky cat if it means I have to buy one from the Chinese buffet.”
“Oh, good.” Nainai was comfortably sitting up in bed, her white hair brushed up into a small bun. “Just don’t be too long, like last night. You’re always having fun without me!”
Lacey decided against telling her grandmother about all the scary events that unfolded. And in doing so, she also pledged to wear turtlenecks for as long as the purple bruising showed. Nordstrom was having an amazing sale, she wouldn’t miss on the way back. “Love you!” she called from the door.
“I love you too, baby girl,” Nainai said, and grabbed the remote with her wrinkled fingers.
She turned on the TV. A breaking news story of an illegal imports business being busted was flashing across the screen. By the help of anonymous tips, a couple Japanese men were being arrested, at the center of it all.
“Hmmm.” Nainai was interested for about five minutes before she switched the station to another episode of AFV. She especially loved the cat antics: sliding off countertops, swinging from fans, stepping up to big dogs on their hind legs…
She laughed and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. Then came the sudden frightening feeling of fragility, of being a woman well into her eighties. Laughter sometimes caused her ribs to ache. Struggling to reposition herself, her chest heaved with the stress of it all. That started up a cough from deep within her lungs. The thought of death came to her, like it had many times before. Was this all normal, old-age stuff? Or would she go to sleep tonight and not wake up?
With the episode wrapping up, she pushed the power button on the remote, letting her head sink into her pillow… when suddenly a very pretty cat was seen stepping across the living room’s windowsill. It had gold and black stripes.
Nainai had never seen any cat like that before. Its big round eyes sort of smiled at her with great intelligence shining through them. No, more than that. Wisdom. Great wisdom.
“Hello,” Nainai said with a sweet smile. “Are you my new lucky cat?”
The cat sat in the ceramic pose, waving a paw.
Nainai giggled. “You are too cute. Too cute.”
To her surprise, the cat spoke. And though its mouth didn’t move, it clearly sounded like a refined lady. It’s not your time, it said.
Nainai’s eyes narrowed in seriousness, her smile fading. “When will it be my time?”
The cat smiled, as if holding on to a great secret. Let’s just say Heaven made a promise to someone to extend your stay here.
“My bones ache, lucky cat. My chest hurts. I’m weak…” Her eyes misted.
The cat teleported to the old woman’s bedside. With compassion, it peered at her as if reaching deep inside, talking to her spirit. You are still needed here on Earth.
Knowingly, Nainai said, “Lacey.”
The cat gave a small nod, then waved a paw over Nainai.
Nainai breathed in deeply, feeling a wave of peace, of all her weakness fading, if for but a moment. She knew it was right to live on. Then she thought of that sweet boyfriend Lacey once had. “But where’s Victor? I haven’t seen him in a long time. Doesn’t he love my granddaughter? Aren’t they going to get married? I told Lacey she needed to stay with him. He would make a great husband. And now he’s gone, disappeared, like he never existed.”
Can I trust you to keep a secret? the cat said.
“Of course,” Nainai said, excited for the response. “Confucius say, ‘I’m the best secret-keeper there is!’”
She hasn’t seen the last of Victor. He’ll be back. He still loves her, always will.
“Oh, that makes me feel much, much better.” Nainai gave a closed-mouth smile of pure happiness, shut her eyes, and drifted into a peaceful, deep sleep—the kind where she would awake to her granddaughter greeting her with a big kiss to the forehead, and a ceramic cat in her arms. Huge.
The end.
(Read on for sample chapters from the next book in The Dead Ex Files.)
DEAR READER:
So you’ve come to the end of Unwed and Dead. We hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we did writing it. If you did have fun, we’d be delighted to receive your review on Amazon. Reviews help us gain advertisements, which helps with exposure, so we can continue writing mysteries.
Warm Regards,
Claire Kane
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
Claire Kane is an avid reader and writer, who enjoys going on zany adventures with her eccentric mother. She loves classic fashion statements, a good root beer float, and always eats with her mouth closed. And she of course has a weak spot for murder mysteries.
An engineer by day, a writer by night, Stan Crowe has lived more places than he ever imagined he would, and has more children than most imagine they ever will. Author of the collection, “A Comedy of Love,” Stan wrote his first book at age five. Of late, Stan and his family have taken to waking up to Arizona sunrises.
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Website: zoeyandclaire.blogspot.com
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Twitter: @Zoey_Claire
EMAIL: [email protected]
Order the Kindle copy by visiting its Amazon page HERE.
A MODEL MURDER (The Dead Ex Files – Book 2)
SAMPLE CHAPTERS
PROLOGUE
A woman ran blindly through the Seattle parking lot, dodging cars and shooting frightened glances over her shoulder. During a glance back, her shoe snagged on a break in the sidewalk, sending her sprawling. She hit hard, rasping her hands on the concrete, but scrabbled to her feet again and ran on.
Rounding a corner, she ran directly into a man with biceps the size of small logs. “Gotcha!” he said, seizing her arms.
The woman shrieked. Blond hair flaring, she struggled in the man’s grasp, managing to connect a kick with his shin. He growled and struggled to subdue her, but she managed to knee him in his groin. He doubled over, and she sprinted away.
“That’s it,” he growled, staggering slightly as he dashed after her. “I don’t care if you call me the baby daddy or not. You’re dead.”
*
The worst part of it was that she recognized the victim.
Jessica Simcox.
Feeling violated, Lacey got out of bed and, still shaking, made her way to the shower. “What was that, Victor?” she murmured, uncertain whether her ex-boyfriend might actually hear her. “Why have I had such weird dreams since you left? And why are they turning violent?” She turned the shower on to as hot as she dared, then undressed as it warmed up. When it was ready, she stepped into the steaming stream, wondering whether the water heater would hold out long enough for her to really think.
Jessica had been Victor’s girlfriend some time before Lacey had come to know him. Though Lacey had only ever met the other woman once, and under embarrassing circumstances, she’d heard enough from Victor to be glad he hadn’t stayed with her. Jessica had even falsely claimed that Victor was the father of her unborn child. Beautiful, well-dressed, and predatory, she was the kind of girl guys’ moms warned them about.
Yet, Lacey could hardly believe Jessica deserved to die—especially since she was pregnant.
Lacey wet her hair, exulting in the warmth that coursed over her. Feeling the urge, she poured a large dollop of body wash in her palm and went to work scrubbing off the icky feeling remaining from the dream. She’d practically been able to smell the fear, the stench of the murderer’s breath, and the reek of the back street dumpster Jessica had passed.
