Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  A crucifix adorned the wall next to the kitchen table, testament to the fixation on morality Walt Beadleman had developed after the divorce. At every chance, but especially when he drank, her father sermonized the virtues of chastity and honesty. Look at what her mother's deceit had done to their family, he would rail, and how it had led to her untimely demise.

  I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.

  Shaking off the heebie-jeebies, Roxann glanced around the cramped space, her heart squeezing at the clutter and neglect. Old feelings of shame resurfaced. She'd hated other kids knowing that she lived in River Hills, and her father was so slovenly, she'd been too embarrassed to have friends over. Angora had never been there—God only knew what she must be thinking.

  "I'll get my bag so we can change clothes." Roxann trotted outside, and after two grunting attempts, slid open the van door.

  "Who's there?" an elderly voice called.

  She looked out to see her father's neighbor standing in the weedy driveway, his neck craned.

  "It's me, Mr. Sherwood. Roxann Beadleman."

  The man's face rearranged into a smile. "Roxann! Child, it's good to see you."

  "Good to see you, too, Mr. Sherwood. Do you know where my father is?"

  He nodded. "Him and Archie Cann drove to Gramercy for a fishing tournament. Going to be gone all weekend long."

  "I should have called," she said, harboring mixed feelings. Although she felt an obligation to see her father, it was never a wholly pleasant experience. And with Angora in tow, the visit would have been doubly awkward.

  "You going to be staying a while?"

  "I'm not sure," she hedged. "If I have to leave, I'll write Dad a note."

  "He'll be sorry he missed you."

  She managed a smile as she hauled out the bulging duffel bag. "Thanks, Mr. Sherwood. You take care."

  She slid the van door closed and waved, then reentered the house. Angora stood at the sink that was piled high with dirty dishes, running water into a dented teapot. "I thought we could use some tea," she told Roxann primly.

  The incongruity of a bride in full regalia making tea in her father's dilapidated house was almost incomprehensible. Personally, Roxann was craving a beer, and she was almost certain her father didn't have any teabags, but she said, "Sounds good," then nodded toward her duffel. "Dry clothes."

  "You'll have to help me get out of this dress." Then Angora proceeded to scare the crap out of Roxann by trying to light the ancient gas stove. The flash melted the sequins on Angora's bodice and left Roxann's eyebrows feeling crackly.

  "Let's see if we can find my old bedroom," she urged, then crossed the kitchen into the shabby living room, a throwback to the Harvest Gold and Burnt Orange decorating era. Books and magazines occupied every vertical and horizontal surface, including the floor. The faded carpet was footworn, and the familiar cabinet-model television squatted under the window, taking up too much room. A naked bulb in the center of the ceiling cast a garish glow that blinded while leaving the corners dark. More or less, everything was the sa—

  Roxann came up short at the sight of her college diploma hanging over the couch like a prized piece of artwork. Professionally matted in Fighting Irish Green and framed in satiny cherrywood, the piece was fantastically out of place against the peeling wallpaper. Getting a degree was the only thing she'd ever done that had pleased her father, but the precious piece of paper had led to an even bigger rift between them when she'd "thrown away her education" to become involved with Rescue. Her father had had his heart set on her attending law school—

  "Are you okay?" Angora asked.

  "Sure." She made her feet move and picked a path across the living room. "I'm sorry—Dad's a slob."

  "He's a lonely bachelor."

  Her cousin had always had a soft spot for Roxann's father. Probably because she only saw him at his best once a year at Dee's Christmas shindig.

  "When was the last time you were home?" Angora asked.

  "Dad and I communicate best over the phone." Besides, she couldn't recall.

  She led the way down a narrow hallway and pushed open the door to the bedroom that used to be hers. She blinked. The room hadn't been changed since she'd last slept there. Though the yellow comforter was faded, it was neatly made, topped with two denim pillows that she'd made in sophomore home ec. True to the Craftsman bungalow style of the house, the ceiling was low, and the room compact, large enough to hold only the bed, a bureau, and an upholstered chair. A small green braided rug lay at the foot of her bed. She used to leap out of bed and hit that rug, then jump to a fuzzy mat in the bathroom so her feet wouldn't touch the cold wood floors.

  Step on a crack, you'll break your mother's back. And the wood floors had had so many cracks to avoid.

  On top of the dark judges paneling that encompassed the walls, she'd hung panels of corkboard, which were still dotted with curled, yellowed clippings and snapshots of long-forgotten acquaintances. An eight-by-ten of her high school senior portrait sat on the headboard in a dated frame. She hadn't been smiling. Roxann glanced at Angora—the Spartan little room was a far cry from her cousin's wonderland boudoir, with a walk-in closet and sitting room with phone and TV.

  "Looks like your dad is hoping you'll come back home to live," was all she said.

  "Yeah, right, at my age?" Too late, she remembered her cousin's housing arrangement. "Oh—sorry. I'm sure you have a good reason for living at home."

  "Not really. Where do you live?"

  "Biloxi. For now."

  "Oh." Angora stepped out of her shoes, losing three inches in the process, but settled down to a respectable five feet and six inches anyway. They were identical in height. "If I don't get out of this dress, I'm going to kill myself."

  No wonder—she looked as if she'd been poured into the gown to begin with, and it had surely shrunk from the wetness. Roxann tackled the zipper, recalling that Angora had always struggled to keep her curves at bay, with Dee breathing down her neck at every meal. When the zipper gave way, her cousin practically groaned in relief. She peeled the wet silk from her shoulders and stepped out of the gown, revealing a strapless elastic bodysuit that extended from armpit to knee, and looked painful as hell.

  "The bathroom's through there," Roxann said, pointing. She dropped to sit on the foot of her bed, instantly reminded of the creaky springs. "But it's just a tub, no shower."

  "A bath sounds like heaven."

  To her, too, but she'd give Angora first crack. The girl had had a bad day.

  Angora pushed open the door, then stopped. From her vantage point on the bed, Roxann saw her cousin's eyes widen at her disheveled hair and makeup reflected in the wavy mirror on the opposite wall. Her chin began to wobble. She slowly lifted the rhinestone tiara from her head and placed it on the avocado-green sink, then removed what pins were left in her sodden hair. The look in her eyes scared Roxann—hatred?

  "Let me get the water started," she volunteered, and slipped past Angora into the bathroom. "I remember the stopper was a little tricky."

  The old porcelain tub was dusty, but otherwise still in good shape. She turned on the water, which ran rusty for a few seconds, then swished her hand around the sides. The rubber stopper nestled into place just fine and the water ran warm almost immediately. She checked the medicine cabinet and found some gel bath balls that were stuck together from age. After tossing a handful into the water, she turned a smile back to Angora, who was still staring at herself in the mirror.

  "In you go," she said cheerfully.

  Angora's shoulders started shaking, and her face crumbled. She let out a wail that Roxann was sure would have Mr. Sherwood looking out his window. Roxann caught her before she fell. "Let's get this scuba suit off so you can relax." Stripping the elastic suit from Angora while half supporting her weight was a feat, but she finally managed it.

  Angora's breasts and hips sprang out to their normal proportions—generous. The suit, which was doll-sized in its original form, had left angry marks on h
er skin.

  "Did you jump out of a two-story window into this thing?"

  "It was worth it—my dress was a ten instead of a twelve."

  Roxann looked back to the heap of soiled silk on her bedroom floor but said nothing. She helped Angora climb into the tub, then turned at the sound of the teakettle whistling. "I'll get that—yell if you need me."

  Angora nodded miserably and lay back in the tub.

  Roxann sighed, then walked back through the house to turn off the burner. She opened a few cupboards looking for tea, but found little except canned ravioli and chili. Her heart squeezed—her father wasn't taking care of himself. And she wasn't taking care of him, either.

  She scrounged up a box of garbage bags and went through the cabinets, tossing out anything that looked or smelled dangerous. Then she poured the kettle water into the sink and washed dishes, and took a shot at cleaning the counters. In the living room she cleared as much clutter as she could and ran the old canister vacuum, giving special attention to the crumbs and stains around her father's La-Z-Boy.

  She peeked in on Angora, and as she suspected, found her cousin fast asleep—and snoring like a bear. A by-product of the nose job, Angora had insisted when Roxann complained in college. Roxann sighed. Sitting in an old tub in a seedy part of town probably wasn't what Angora had envisioned when she rolled out of bed this morning. Poor little rich girl.

  Roxann returned to the hall and glanced toward her father's bedroom. She didn't want to intrude on his privacy, but neither did she want him living in squalor. The door was ajar, so she poked her head inside, pleased to see the bed passably made. Clothes were stacked on a straight-backed chair, but they appeared to be laundered. She picked up a couple of towels in the bathroom and rehung the sagging shower curtain. On her way out of the bedroom, though, she stopped, her heart in her throat.

  Chapter Seven

  A COLORIZED PHOTO OF HER MOTHER sat in a silver frame at her father's bedside. Roxann remembered the photo because she'd thought her mother looked so glamorous with her flip 'do and her off-the-shoulder dress. The photo had once sat on the fireplace mantel, but had disappeared, along with other photos of her mother, after the divorce.

  "Where are all the pictures of Mommy?" she'd asked.

  "Gone," he'd said, and not nicely.

  "I want to live with her."

  "Well, you can't. Go get me a beer."

  When her mother had been killed in a car accident four years later, she'd longed for a photo, but had to settle for the pictures in her head. Soon, though, the impressions of her mother's scant visits had been overridden by the image of her mother lying in a casket. For the past few years, she'd been unable to conjure up her mother's face at all. Seeing the photo now was a bittersweet gift. Her mother had been so beautiful, with full lips and expressive eyes. Roxann bit back tears, grappling, as always, with her father's inexplicable behavior. When had he forgiven her mother enough to remove the picture from his hiding place?

  "Roxann?" Angora called.

  She replaced the picture, wiped her eyes, and returned to the bathroom. Angora was still in the bathtub. "Would you help me rinse my hair?"

  Roxann had taken plenty of baths in that tub with no help rinsing her hair, but granted, Angora wasn't used to making do, and she had about a hundred times as much hair as a normal person.

  "Sure." She used the cup that once held her toothbrush to capture warm water from the faucet and pour it over Angora's bent head until the soap was gone. "Feeling better?"

  Angora sat back, immersed to her shoulders. She looked younger and more delicate without makeup. "A little."

  "So this guy was the love of your life?"

  Angora studied a clump of dissolving bubbles. "I thought so."

  She had that wild-eyed look again that made Roxann shiver. "Do you want me to call someone—your mother?"

  "What time is it?"

  "Around five-thirty."

  "Maybe later."

  Make them suffer a little longer. She couldn't blame her. "Do you want to spend the night here? Dad's at a fishing tournament, so we'll have the place to ourselves."

  "I don't have anyplace else to go." She had regressed to a little-girl voice.

  Roxann sat back on her heels. "You'll have to face them sometime. Besides, this situation wasn't your fault."

  "Yes, it was—I should've stood up to Mother when she wanted to invite that woman to my wedding."

  Blame everyone but the guilty. "And what would've happened two months from now when Trenton ran into his old girlfriend at the airport?"

  "He wouldn't have," she said miserably. "We were moving to Chicago."

  "Really?"

  "I was going to be an art agent for a big important firm." She knuckled away a tear. "Now that's all down the drain."

  Roxann frowned. "Why?"

  "Well, because now I'm not moving."

  "Why not? Go without the goon."

  Her laugh was rueful. "Mother and Father would never allow me to move there alone."

  "So don't ask them."

  Roxann knew that look—Angora had always struggled with her desire for independence versus the burden of being cut off from the goodies. Suddenly she brightened. "Maybe I can live with you."

  "Uh...I don't think that's such a good idea. You'd better get out of the water before you wither away. Besides, it's my turn."

  Angora nodded and sat up. "I could really use that tea."

  Roxann shook her head as she rummaged for the least threadbare towel under the tiny vanity. "Sorry, I couldn't find any tea. But help yourself to anything in the fridge that isn't rancid. If you're hungry, we could go out and get some dinner. Or I could order a pizza."

  Angora's eyes lit up for just a second, then she patted her stomach. "I'd better not—I'm on a diet."

  "What kind of diet?" she asked suspiciously, remembering the harebrained gimmicks Angora had used to lose weight when they roomed together.

  "It's a food-combination plan."

  "What foods?"

  "Um...popcorn and carrots."

  "Popcorn and carrots? Is that why your skin is the color of a pumpkin?"

  "I think it looks nice."

  "Christ, Angora, you're orange."

  She snatched the towel. "Could I please just have those clothes you promised?"

  Roxann frowned, then went into the bedroom and unzipped the duffel bag. She fished around, wishing she'd taken more care when she'd packed her bag. The nicest thing she had to offer Angora was a pair of faded jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt.

  "You're kidding, right?" Angora asked, looking over her shoulder.

  "Sorry, I sort of packed in a hurry."

  She held up the T-shirt. "Good grief, when was the last time you went shopping?"

  "For clothes?" Roxann pulled at the hem of her orange pullover self-consciously.

  Angora sighed. "That's a horrible color for you."

  She smirked. "Maybe I'll start eating carrots."

  Angora picked up the bottle of pepper spray. "Is this what all the well-dressed women in Biloxi are wearing?"

  Roxann grabbed the pepper spray before Angora could spray herself, "Just a precaution."

  Her cousin sighed. "I'll never be able to get my butt into those jeans—don't you have anything stretchy?"

  "Just these." Roxann held up a pair of red thong underwear.

  "Now I know you're kidding."

  Remembering Angora's penchant for girdle granny panties, Roxann grinned. "They're not so bad once you get used to them." She left Angora studying the underwear, then ran her own bath. She stripped, indulged in a few seconds of envy over Angora's curves next to her own boyish figure, then slid into the water up to her shoulders. A groan escaped her as the warm water caressed her calves, still tender from yesterday's run. Unbidden, Capistrano's face popped into her mind, his expression mocking as he perused her ugly shoes. Maybe she should have called him yesterday to report the break-in. Maybe he would have—

  She scoffed. May
be he would have helped her? Help her what? She couldn't be sure that Frank Cape was looking for her. Besides, Detective Capistrano struck her as the kind of guy who would expect something in return—like the whereabouts of Melissa Cape.

  No, the more she thought about it, the more she suspected that Elise had been behind the trashing of her place and leaving the bizarre message. Elise was a computer buff, and had spent hours on Roxann's desktop, mostly surfing chat rooms. Which is where, Roxann believed, Elise had gotten the idea that her repeated failed relationships with men meant that she was gay. But if that was the case, Roxann thought wryly, most of the female population would be gay. Elise had always been wound tight, so Roxann suspected that the woman's newfound gayness was justification for the things she perceived to be wrong in her life. And the break-in was probably retribution for Roxann's not jumping on her bandwagon—from Elise's stories, she knew the woman had done some pretty wacky things to men who had wronged her. The fact that Rescue would hire her was testament to their desperate need for staff.

  Roxann inhaled deeply, then exhaled, relaxing her back and shoulder muscles. For now, she'd simply lie low for a few days, and maybe look for a new place when she got back to Biloxi. Although she really liked the color she'd painted her bedroom...

  She must have dozed, because Angora's voice startled her so badly she klonked her head against the unforgiving porcelain. "Ow!" She looked up to see Angora, wearing only the T-shirt and the tiny panties, holding a bottle of something. "What did you say?"

  "Sorry. I said, look what I found. Tequila."

  Roxann winced, rubbing her head. "Don't tell me you want to drink that stuff."

  "But I do."

  "Have you become a hard drinker since we last partied together?"

  "I like margaritas."

  She laughed and pushed herself up, then reached for a skimpy towel. "It's not the same."

  "Come on, I deserve a drink."

  "I won't argue that point, but there's truth to the adage about drinking tequila 'to kill ya.' You'll have to mix it with something just to get it down."