Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  He doffed his plaid flop hat—which might have matched his pants if they'd been the same color. Or the same plaid. "You're home early."

  She nodded and smiled, loath to engage in a drawn-out conversation.

  "Has your roommate come back?"

  She shook her head—another land-mine subject.

  "Never liked her myself," he said.

  Not sure how to respond without encouraging more trashing of Elise, she said nothing.

  "I was thinking that since you're alone now, er, perhaps you'd like to join me for dinner tonight?"

  At the jaunty set of his chin, she realized incredulously that the old man was hitting on her. The people who had shown a love interest in her lately were a lesbian and a senior citizen.

  "Thank you, Mr. Nealy, but I can't." Even though she was hungry enough to eat his hat.

  "You know, Roxann, if you ever need anything, anything at all, you can call on me." His voice was spookily wistful. His wife had died in the flower bed a year ago, before Roxann had moved in.

  "Th-thank you, Mr. Nealy. Have a nice evening."

  He winked and disappeared into his unit. Sighing in relief, she inserted her key into the lock, surprised when the door swung open with no resistance.

  Somebody had been there.

  Objects overturned, drawers upended. She froze, her ears pricked for any sound that would indicate the intruder was still inside, but only silence greeted her. As a precaution, she reached into her gym bag and withdrew a can of pepper spray. For a split second, she considered yelling for Mr. Nealy, but then thought better—she might have to save them both. With her heart pounding, she moved toward the TV room, her weapon poised, her muscles twitching in case she had to unleash a few well-placed kickboxing moves: kneecap, groin, nose. She suddenly regretted missing class the last two weeks.

  Motives swirled through her mind. Burglary? If so, the perp would have been mightily disappointed. Apart from a broken strand of pearls, she had little worth stealing. In the living room, cushions were turned and books scattered. The TV had been tumbled, probably because the thief had been irritated to find an unimpressive nineteen-inch model with a garbage bag twistie for a knob.

  Had the person been looking for something in particular? She gingerly rounded the corner to Elise's former bedroom, which sat empty except for a box of clothes for Goodwill, now thrown helter-skelter.

  The sight of her own bedroom made her ill, the Terra-cotta Summer wall paint notwithstanding. Her closet door stood open, and clothes had been dumped on her bed. Bureau drawers hung open, the rug was upturned. From her desk, the blue monitor of the aged computer glared at her, and her initial relief that it hadn't been stolen was replaced by apprehension when she saw from the doorway that words had been typed on the screen. Only after she checked the bathroom and under the bed did she concede she was alone, and made her way back to the computer.

  I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.

  The blinking cursor was a silent exclamation point. She stumbled backward and fell hard on her tailbone. Warm blood oozed around her teeth from having bitten her tongue, and her mouth sang with pain. She scrambled to her feet, still staring at the screen. The words were personal, not the mischief of a random intruder.

  I've got your number.

  Was the message literal, meaning the person knew her unlisted information? Or figurative, meaning they had damning information about her? Her mind raced, sifting through the list of people who could have broken in and taken the time to leave an enigmatic calling card.

  Frank Cape? He might have tracked down her address hoping to scare her into revealing Melissa's whereabouts. In the newspaper exposé, the thwarted husband had used the word fake a half-dozen times. Those Rescue people are a bunch of fakes. Frank could have simply borrowed the wording.

  Richard Funderburk? When she and a few of his friends had confronted him about his drinking, his reaction had stunned her—ugly, vengeful, and defensive. I'll get you back, you self-righteous fake.

  Elise? Roxann had asked for the key when she moved out, but Elise could've had a spare. During their argument following Elise's shocking announcement, hadn't Elise used the word fake? You led me on with your fake friendship.

  Detective Capistrano? He hadn't bothered to hide his disdain for her and the program. Unless you're a fake. Maybe he was desperate enough to search her place for clues about Melissa Cape and make it look like a break-in.

  Or—she swallowed hard—was the past catching up with her? A dirty little secret that sometimes jolted her awake from a deep sleep to remind her that the venerable life she'd built had been the fruit of a poisonous tree. But no one knew about those circumstances except Angora, and it didn't seem likely she'd be terrorizing Roxann when she was on the verge of getting married. Besides, Angora had just as much to lose if the truth were revealed...maybe more.

  She shook away the useless train of thought, forcing herself to deal with the immediate situation: call the police and report the break-in. But halfway to the phone she stopped. And tell them what?

  That a man might be after her because she helped his ex-wife disappear, oh, and by the way, the woman is a material witness to a crime in which a cop was shot, but no, she can't reveal the woman's whereabouts.

  And did she mention that her former roommate might be out for revenge because she had rebuked the woman's advances?

  Or that her former lover had threatened to teach her a lesson for embarrassing him with an intervention?

  Plus she'd talked just this morning with one of their detectives who might have taken the law into his own hands to get the answers she wouldn't give him?

  The police would show up all right—with a net.

  She performed a cursory search to see if anything was missing, although it was hard to tell. Her scant costume jewelry had been rifled, but her broken pearls were safe in the glue-bound teacup she'd kept all these years. Her personal files were in disarray, but it was policy not to keep Rescue records at home—she even shredded names and phone numbers scribbled on scratch sheets of paper. The contents of her shredder had been strewn, which led her to believe that either the intruder hadn't been searching for anything in particular, or had simply given up. Somebody had wanted to scare her, to send her a message.

  A quick check of the windows showed no signs of forced entry, and the door hadn't been jimmied. Someone with a key, or a good lock-pick. She yanked out a duffel bag and stuffed in clothes as she found them, along with a few personal items. On the way to the back door, she noticed her land-line phone-message light was flashing—a rarity.

  Holding her breath, she pressed the button. Two hang-ups, then some heavy wheezing that sent a chill up her spine, then another hang-up. She erased the messages, then nearly lost the contents of her bladder when the phone rang. It took her three rings to find the cordless receiver. She hit the talk button, heart leaping in her chest. "Hello?"

  "Last chance—I'm thawing a rump roast."

  She closed her eyes and asked herself why she'd given the man her phone number. "Thanks, Mr. Nealy. Really." She winced at the rhyme. "But I'm going out of town for a few days."

  "Is something wrong, dear? You don't sound like yourself."

  "No, nothing's wrong. Mr. Nealy, you didn't happen to see anyone outside today, did you?"

  "No. Why?"

  "I've been expecting a package, that's all."

  "Oh. Shall I water your plants while you're gone?"

  "No, that's not necessary." She had no plants.

  "Well, I'll keep an eye out for your package."

  "Thanks. But don't open your door to a stranger."

  "Oh...kay."

  No need to take chances if the culprit was some kind of neighborhood gang. She promised to join him for dinner when she returned, and he seemed satisfied.

  She slung the duffel over her shoulder and headed for the door, her mind spinning. She'd pick up Goldie, alert the home office that she was being harassed, and hit the road while she considered w
hether she needed to find a new place to live.

  Her mail was scattered across the kitchen floor where she'd dropped it in her haste to arm herself. She scooped up the envelopes, stopping at the sight of the wedding invitation on top. An idea bloomed.

  The nuptials were to take place tomorrow afternoon in the showiest cathedral in Baton Rouge. She could get a hotel room tonight, be in her hometown by noon tomorrow, catch the highlights of the wedding, then swing by to argue with her old man for a while. It might even be fun to see Angora again, and to check out her doctor man. Heck, it would be worth it to drop in without an RSVP just to piss off Aunt Dee.

  And, in truth, it would be nice to take a break from reality, to peek in on her cousin's charmed life until she could clear the cobwebs in her own head.

  Minutely cheered, Roxann slipped out the door and locked it behind her.

  Chapter Four

  "ON THREE, LADIES. One...two...three."

  Angora Ryder strained not to blink, but from the photographer's post-click frown, she suspected she had. Her first childhood memory was of being posed and photographed, but today she couldn't stop blinking for some reason. A nervous tic?

  "Let's try it again," he intoned. "On three."

  Her mother stood beside the camera pointing to her own cheeks and mouthing, "Watch the laugh lines."

  Watch the laugh lines. Dee's mantra. After thirty-two years, Angora realized it was the closest thing to motherly advice she was going to get. Well, today was her wedding day, darn it, so she was going to smile. Some. If only she could keep from blinking.

  "Let's try it again," the photographer bellowed, eyeing her.

  October thirteenth, at last. She was minutes away from marrying an intelligent, handsome doctor. Then she would embark on a three-week honeymoon to Hawaii, and upon return, Dr. and Mrs. Trenton Robert Coughlin (she loved the way that sounded) were moving to Chicago. Trenton had landed a spot with a prestigious podiatry practice, and she had snagged a position with the number one art agency in the Windy City. So what if the owner's passion for Notre Dame and its progeny had cinched the offer?—she would prove her worth when she discovered the next Kandinsky. She just needed a chance. And maybe a brilliant secretary.

  Goodbye, cataloging exhibits at the Baton Rouge River Walk Museum. Goodbye, overbearing mother. Goodbye, Angora Michele Ryder. Hello, Life.

  "I think I got it that time," the photographer said. "Okay, ladies, I need for you to turn sideways and move in as close as possible so I can get the fountain behind you."

  Twenty-four bridesmaids in primrose pink. Angora inhaled as the girls on either side squeezed in closer. Not an easy feat to round up twenty-four girls from the club who weren't pregnant or who hadn't already ballooned up because they'd been married too long to care, but she'd done it. True, three of the girls she barely knew, but they came from very good families, and twelve maids on each side of her would look splendid in the photos.

  She'd wanted to ask her cousin Roxann to be a bridesmaid, but her mother had vehemently refused. Dee detested Roxann, which was a shame since she was Dee's only flesh-and-blood niece, but things were what they were.

  "Angora, darling, stop frowning," her mother called.

  She smiled, which triggered the pantomimed reminder about laugh lines, so she tried to fix her face into the nonsmiling, nonfrowning expression her mother had patented.

  If truth be known, Dee hated Roxann because Roxann was smart. Smarter than anyone Angora knew, and certainly smarter than anyone in the family, including Dee with all her conniving talent, so devious at times it bordered on admirable.

  "Your cousin is a beatnik lesbian and I won't have her at the wedding," her mother had declared when Angora proposed the idea.

  She had nearly burst out laughing. Roxann, a lesbian? Her cousin had taught her how to give a blowjob on a tube of toothpaste. Roxann could recite verbatim entire chapters from How to Make Love to a Man, and had been working her way through the positions illustrated in The Joy of Sex. When Angora had been forced to leave the dorm, Roxann and her poet grad-student boyfriend were up to "the Figure Eight." She always wondered how that one had turned out.

  "Mother, what makes you think Roxann is a lesbian?" she'd asked.

  "She's so odd. Besides, she's not married."

  "I'm not married."

  Dee had made an impatient noise. "It's not the same thing. Roxann has always worn her hair short."

  She'd dropped the dead-end conversation with Dee, but she'd asked the calligrapher for one blank invitation and addressed it using the post office box she'd wangled from Uncle Walt last Christmas.

  She'd even started a couple of letters to Roxann several months ago, but the words had seemed forced and boring. With the exception of her engagement, her life was much the same as it had been ten years ago. Same people, same parties, same gossip. In comparison, the details she'd gleaned from Uncle Walt about Roxann's life were beyond exciting—her exotic cousin was living on the fringe of the law as some sort of top-secret bodyguard. Uncle Walt had been evasive and a little bewildered, but button-busting proud. Angora would have given her second-favorite pair of diamond stud earrings if she thought she could make her parents proud.

  Not that she actually expected Roxann to come to the wedding—she couldn't be sure, but to an outlaw, country club events were probably a bit passé . Besides, Uncle Walt said Roxann had to keep moving around, so she might not even have received the invitation. She cringed when she realized if the invitation was returned, Dee would know she'd sent it.

  "Darling, why are you frowning?"

  She rearranged her face and bugged her eyes at the lens.

  "Got it!" the photographer said.

  Oh, well, she would consider it payback for Dee insisting that she invite Darma Walker Lowe, Trenton's former girlfriend. Her mother practically fell to her knees any time one of the Walkers entered a room—their real estate empire and influence were far-reaching. Trenton and Darma had dated years ago, but she'd left him for a man higher up the food chain, a plastic surgeon. They'd been ill-suited anyway, Trenton had assured her. She believed him, because no two people could be more suited than she and Trenton. They liked the same restaurants, listened to the same music, drove the same model of BMW. They understood each other.

  "Okay, just the bride and her parents."

  The bridesmaids squeezed her hand and wished her luck. She squeezed back and kept an eye on her train to make sure it wasn't trampled. The twelve feet of crystal beads and iridescent sequins had doubled the cost of the white silk dress, but she was marrying a doctor, after all.

  "You look beautiful, sweetie," her father said, touching her tiara—the most stunning of her crowns, Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge, 1987. She only got the chance to wear it two, three times a year at the most, so her wedding was the perfect occasion to remove it from her crown case.

  "Stand up straight, dear," Dee said. "And hold in your stomach."

  Angora tilted her head to accommodate her mother's hat, an enormous fuchsia creation designed by a famous gay clothier in New Orleans. Her mother didn't mind exploiting the talents of gays, she just didn't want them in attendance at the wedding. Of course, she didn't know about Mr. Fenton and Mr. Johnston, the "widowers."

  Her engagement ring glittered from this morning's ultrasonic cleaning. One-and-a-half-carat solitaire diamond, emerald cut, platinum setting. Dee stressed that Angora let Trenton know from the start that she expected a quality lifestyle. In fact, one of Dee's shower gifts to the couple had been a subscription to the DuPont Registry, which listed only the most expensive estates in the country.

  "Not for your first home, of course," her mother had told Trenton, "but certainly the next."

  "On three, everyone."

  Angora thrust back her shoulders and sucked in her stomach to the point of pain. She'd existed on carrots and popcorn for six weeks to get into this gown, but it'd been worth it. As a bonus, the carotene had put a nice ginger cast on her skin.

  "
The bride keeps closing her eyes," the photographer whined.

  Dee poked her in the ribs, causing her to exhale abruptly. "For heaven's sake, Angora, keep your eyes open. How lazy can you be?"

  "The girl is probably tired, Dixie," her father said, which elicited a glare from her mother. She hated to be called "Dixie."

  "On three," the photographer yelled.

  "Watch the laugh lines," Dee murmured in her ear.

  She inhaled, arched her back, diluted her smile, and bugged her eyes.

  "Got it!"

  "Looks like rain," her father said, nodding to the charcoal-colored clouds rolling in from the west.

  "Shush, Jackson, it simply can't rain today."

  "If you say so, dear." He winked at Angora.

  She grinned back, laugh lines or no. Her father was a saint to put up with her mother.

  "Now just the bride and the father."

  Her dad stepped in and put his arm around her shoulder. "I'm proud of you, honey, for turning out to be such a good person."

  She wasn't such a good person, but she was relieved her father thought so. Relieved and a little guilty.

  "I hope you and Trenton will be as happy as"—he shot a glance toward her mother, then cleared his throat—"will be happy."

  "We will be, Daddy."

  "Now the bride and the mother."

  Dee hummed with disapproval. "Really, Angora, you have the most confused look on your face."

  "How would you like for me to look, Mother?"

  "Don't be snide, young lady. For another hour, you still answer to your father and me. Stand up straight."

  Angora bit her tongue so hard that tears clouded her eyes.

  "Okay, that's it," the photographer said. "I'll see everyone at the front of the church after the ceremony."

  Which couldn't come soon enough. But she had to endure another layer of hair lacquer and a makeup touch-up under Dee's supervision, all the while standing because the gown could not look creased. Her feet ached, her stomach churned, and she was light-headed with anticipation. This must be how a prisoner felt just before being paroled—the incarceration was at its most suffocating moments before freedom.