Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  "I saw some tomato juice in the fridge."

  She grimaced. "If you're determined."

  "You look great," Angora said, nodding in the general direction of Roxann's nudity.

  "Uh, thanks...I guess." A stupid flush climbed her neck as she tucked the ends of the towel between her breasts.

  "You were always so nice and thin."

  "You were the one with the great figure."

  "Great figure? I'm considering swallowing a tapeworm to get rid of these extra pounds."

  "You're letting Dee get to you. I'm ordering pizza and we're going to enjoy it." If she could find a pizza parlor that would deliver to this neighborhood. "How are those thongs?"

  Angora frowned. "Invasive."

  Roxann laughed, padded into the bedroom, and picked through the hodgepodge of clothing spread out on the yellow comforter. She stepped into underwear and a pair of denim shorts, and pulled on a pink tank top.

  "Can I borrow a horsehair brush?" Angora asked, running her fingers through her nearly dry golden hair. "I can't afford to get split ends."

  "There should be a brush in here," Roxann said, opening the top drawer of the bureau. "But I can't promise horsehair." She rummaged through miscellaneous items that resurrected memories: key chains, dog-eared paperbacks, her name badge from the dress shop where she'd worked during high school, her Notre Dame tassel. Why hadn't she taken it with her when she left home?

  Why, indeed.

  "Our Magic 8 Ball!" Angora lifted the vintage toy—a pajama powwow prop—from the clutter with a squeal. "Wonder if it still works?" She placed her hands on the ball and closed her eyes. "Am I a big loser jilted bride?" She opened her eyes and consulted the "magic" window. " 'Yes, definitely.' " She looked up. "It still works."

  Roxann laughed, relieved to see her cousin's sense of humor returning. "If memory serves, the thing is broken—it only says 'Yes, definitely.' "

  "Is this a college annual?" Angora asked, removing a bound book embossed with "1992." She squealed again, and Roxann was reminded of her cousin's annoying habit of squealing. Angora's split ends were forgotten in her glee to locate her picture. "Here I am. Oh, that jacket is dreadful, isn't it?"

  Roxann looked over her shoulder. "Who can see the jacket for that big hair?"

  "Okay, let's see your picture, smartie." She flipped back to the Bs, then frowned. " 'No picture available.' "

  Roxann grinned. "Sorry to disappoint."

  Then from the pages of the annual, an envelope fell and twirled to the floor. A memory chord stirred as Roxann bent to retrieve it.

  "A love letter?" Angora teased.

  "Yeah, right." Neither she nor Carl had dared to write down their feelings for each other.

  "Open it."

  She slid her finger under the envelope flap, and pulled out several sheets of yellow legal-pad paper. When she unfolded them, she was swept back through a time tunnel. "You won't believe this."

  "What?"

  Roxann held up the sheets for her to see the writing on the top of the pages: my life list.

  "Our life lists?" Angora murmured. "Omigod."

  Oh my God was right. What more torturous exercise to face during an early-life crisis than to be reminded of all the things you'd planned to accomplish at the ripe old age of eighteen? "Let's break open that tequila."

  Chapter Eight

  ROXANNE DECIDED tomato juice and tequila was quite possibly the most noxious combination of liquids ever concocted. Thank goodness the pepperoni pizza overrode the taste. "Do you remember what we were doing the night we made our life lists?"

  Angora tucked her legs beneath her on the comforter Indian-style and pulled the T-shirt down over her knees. She was wearing her tiara, and her eyes were already bright from only half a glass of the "tequato" juice. "I was smoking my first and only joint." Angora leaned closer. "I don't suppose you have any marijuana on you right now?"

  Roxann cracked a wry smile. "Uh, no. Sorry to tell you this, Angora, but I grew up. Besides, you were sick for a week after you smoked that joint."

  "I don't remember that."

  A convenient trait of Angora's—selective amnesia to go along with her penchant for embellishing the things she did remember. "I suppose you don't remember where we'd been the night we made our lists?"

  "No."

  Roxann studied her cousin's face, wondering how much of their college experience Angora had managed to block out. Roxann had thought her cousin would be thrilled to be away from Dee, but instead she had suffered from bouts of depression and homesickness, even anxiety attacks. Four torturous years. "We were at a memorial service for that girl who was run down in front of the Science Building."

  Angora bit into her lip. "Tammy Paulen."

  "Right," Roxann said, turning to the senior class where she skimmed the thumbnail black-and-white photos. "Here she is—Tammy Renee Paulen, philosophy major." On the page, Tammy was an attractive blonde with a wide smile, frozen in time in a big shoulder-padded blouse and permed hair. When she'd posed for the picture, Tammy probably couldn't have imagined she wouldn't live to graduate.

  Steeped in melancholy, Roxann leaned against the headboard with a denim pillow at her back. "Tammy was in one of my classes. I remember walking by her empty seat for the rest of the semester. It was so weird. Didn't you know her?"

  "No," Angora said, then took another drink from her glass.

  "It says here she was a member of Delta Zeta." Angora's sorority.

  She shrugged. "I knew who she was, but I didn't know her. Seniors didn't associate with freshmen."

  Angling her head, Roxann said, "I thought you saw her the night she was killed."

  Her cousin pulled back, then lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug. "Maybe. My memory is fuzzy."

  Roxann turned back to the girl's photo, wondering what Tammy Renee Paulen would have done with her life if she'd been given the chance. Something better than separating dysfunctional families? "They never found out who did it, did they?"

  "A couple of students were questioned...I think."

  "The memorial service was so sad."

  "Her mother wore a green suit," Angora said, nodding.

  More details crowded Roxann's mind, too. Red-eyed students. Skittish university officials. Frightened gossip. Angora's ashen face...

  Angora had been especially upset when someone had whispered that Tammy's injuries prevented an open-casket viewing. So upset, in fact, that they had left the service early. Back in their dorm room, Roxann had offered Angora a hit from a joint to help her calm down. The scene came flooding back so strongly, Roxann's nostrils twitched. "We were smoking and started talking about what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives," she recalled.

  "And you suggested we make a list." Angora smiled, seemingly relieved at the change in subject.

  Roxann closed the annual, contrite for mentioning the troubling incident—she was supposed to be cheering up her just-jilted cousin.

  Angora rifled through the sheets of paper lying on the bed between them. "But why do you have both lists?"

  "I found them after you moved out."

  "Oh, right. Mother was sure you were corrupting me."

  "I was."

  Angora leaned in. "I have to ask—how was the Figure Eight?"

  "Huh?"

  "The Figure Eight. You know—The Joy of Sex and that long-haired poet?"

  Roxann smiled. "Oh, yeah. I don't remember that position specifically, although I did have a soft spot for the Modified Spoon."

  Angora sighed dramatically. "God, I was so bored after I moved into the DZ house."

  The dizzy house, as it was known on campus. "You were involved in...things."

  "Nothing inspiring," Angora said, tossing her glorious blond hair, which still hadn't been brushed. "You were the one always making headlines in the campus paper."

  "I was going to change the world, all right."

  "So what do you do, exactly? Uncle Walt said you had a top-secret job."

  Rox
ann nodded. "And if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

  Angora's eyes widened.

  "I'm kidding." She laughed at her cousin's gullibility. "I help women who are in trouble."

  "Like me."

  Roxann smiled wryly. "Except the women I deal with are usually in danger of more than being jilted at the altar."

  "Everything's relative," Angora said with a sniff, then frowned into her glass before taking another drink. "But I always knew you'd do something good with your life."

  I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.

  Roxann fidgeted and downed another mouthful of the drink. "Everyone has their own opinion of what's good."

  "Was helping women on your life list?"

  "I don't think so, not specifically. I honestly can't remember."

  "How many things are on your list?"

  Roxann picked up the papers and flipped to the last page. "Thirty-five. You?"

  "Thirty-six. What's your number one?"

  "Let's see...'Backpack across Europe.' "

  "Have you?"

  "Not yet." Not on the meager salaries she commanded, and the tiny stipend she received from Rescue went straight into a money market account. She smoothed a finger over her double-faced travel watch. It was 1 a.m. in London. "But someday. What's number one on your list?"

  Angora grinned sheepishly. "To be Miss America."

  Of course.

  "It could still happen," she insisted.

  "Don't you have to be twenty-five or under?"

  "Hey, I could squeak by, but you also have to be single. Oh, I forgot—I am single." She misted up.

  "You still have—what is it? The Miss Uptown Baton Rouge title?" The alcohol was bleeding through her limbs like menthol.

  "Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge."

  "Oh. Well, with a big honking crown like that, I'll let you count it."

  "Thanks." Angora sniffled and put a mark on the page with an "RTC Electric" ink pen. "My number two is 'Fly a plane.' "

  "Fly a plane?"

  Angora shrugged. "Why not?"

  "Because it's a big hunk of metal that hurtles through the air."

  "Are you saying I'm not smart enough to learn how to fly a plane?"

  "No."

  "Good, because I'm going to someday. What's your number two?"

  " 'Learn to speak French.' For when I went to Paris, of course."

  "Is that why you used to wear that ugly beret?"

  Roxann frowned—Carl had said it was chic.

  "Did you ever learn French?" Angora asked.

  "Just the Cajun I picked up around here, but I doubt if it would get me very far outside of Louisiana. Maybe I'll take a class someday. Number three?"

  " 'Have a cameo on General Hospital.' "

  "Wow."

  "Luke and Laura were all the rage." Angora sighed. "Now there was a match made in heaven."

  "There was a match made during a writers' meeting. How were you going to wangle your way onto a soap opera?"

  "Well, I figured once I was Miss America, I could go on any TV show I wanted to."

  "Good thinking." Either that, or the tequila was grabbing hold of her. "My number three is 'Write a screenplay.' "

  "And?"

  "And I couldn't tell you the last time I even saw a movie."

  "Why did you write down things that were so hard?"

  "Because I had big plans." At eighteen, nothing had seemed beyond reach. World renown. Global peace. True love. "Number four?"

  " 'Meet the president.' "

  "Of the United States?"

  Angora bit her lip. "I don't know."

  "Well, since you didn't specify, you can be creative."

  "Thanks. What's your number four?"

  " 'Be valedictorian.'"

  Angora bounced up and down on the bed. "You were, so you can cross off that one."

  She did, but her stomach churned from the foul drink—so of course she drank more of it.

  "Next I have 'Drive a nice car.' " Angora smiled smugly. "Cross off."

  Roxann's return smile was wry. "Which makes my 'Ride a horse' pale a little in comparison."

  " 'Design a line of clothing.' "

  " 'Read the entire works of Shakespeare.' "

  " 'Learn to swim.' "

  Roxann lifted an eyebrow. "You can't swim?"

  "No."

  "But your parents have an Olympic-sized pool."

  "Mother wouldn't let me use it—she was afraid I'd drown."

  Dee's logic was nothing if not consistent. " 'Learn to play the piano.' "

  Angora's eyes welled up.

  "What?"

  "The next thing on my list is 'Marry a doctor.' "

  Roxann winced. "You were close. I'll let you count that one."

  "Thanks," she choked out, "but I don't think that would be fair."

  "By the way, what kind of a doctor was he?"

  "A podiatrist."

  "A foot doctor? I don't think that counts anyway—a bunion isn't life-threatening."

  "You're just trying to make me feel better."

  "Angora, you don't have anything to feel bad about."

  Her cousin started crying in earnest. "I couldn't keep my man."

  "Oh, God—are you going to sing a country song?"

  She blew her nose on her sleeve. "No—that's number thirteen on my list."

  "Hey, watch it, that's my favorite T-shirt."

  "Sorry." Angora sighed. "I wouldn't expect you to understand about Trenton."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you don't need a man."

  "Don't tell me you believe your mother."

  "I didn't mean you don't need a man, I mean you don't need a man."

  Roxann shifted, ashamed to admit she'd been the tiniest bit envious watching Angora walk down the aisle. "Yeah, well...yeah."

  Angora gestured to the ruined dress heaped on the floor. "Daddy spent a fortune on that dress, the florist, the caterers."

  "If you feel bad about it, pay him back."

  "With what? The allowance he gives me?"

  She blinked. "You still get an allowance?"

  "Just for extras."

  Roxann was starting to remember how high-maintenance Angora could be. "So sell the rock like Trenton said and give the money to your folks."

  Her cousin stared down at her enormous ring, and a new wellspring of tears erupted. "But look at it—it's the perfect ring."

  "And will scare off every eligible man in the state."

  Angora hiccupped. "The ring goes back. Next?"

  " 'Get a postgraduate degree.' "

  " 'Get a gold credit card.' "

  " 'Go parasailing.' "

  " 'Go on a round-the-world cruise.' "

  " 'Become proficient at chess.' "

  " 'Become a famous painter.' "

  "Angora, I didn't know you were an artist."

  "I'm not, but I've seen enough of that abstract nonsense in the museum to fake it."

  You fake. Roxann peered over the top of her list at her tipsy cousin and considered telling Angora about the break-in and the message left on her computer. She chewed on her impulse, testing the story in her head. Maybe it was the distance, or maybe it was lying on her childhood bed, but the threat of danger now seemed more perceived than real. She changed her mind and swallowed the rest of her drink, closing her eyes to ward off the bitter sting at the back of her throat.

  Angora, who seemed to have acquired a taste for the mixed drink, refilled Roxann's glass under protest. By the time they were nearing the end of their lists, they were both feeling the effects of the alcohol—and from the items rounding out their lists, Roxann realized they must have been feeling the effects of that joint years ago.

  "Number thirty-one," Angora slurred, "is 'Get a tattoo.' "

  "Mine is 'Become a prosecuting attorney'—ha. The legal system is a joke."

  "Thirty-two is 'Enter an amateur strip contest.' "

  "Which explains why my number thirty-two says, 'Watch Angora make a fool ou
t of herself in an amateur strip contest.' " They laughed hysterically, but Roxann sobered when she saw the next item on her list.

  "What is it?"

  "Well...remember Dr. Carl Seger?"

  "Do I ever."

  "I had a wild crush on him." An understatement.

  "And?"

  "And number thirty-three on my list is...well..."

  " 'Sleep with Dr. Carl,' " Angora finished.

  Roxann frowned. "How did you know?"

  Angora held up her list. "Ditto. I had a wild crush on him, too. And so did every female on campus."

  "I suppose you're right." Roxann stewed in the juices of old memories—the first time Carl had kissed her, the nights they'd stayed up late putting together research for his presentation, the special looks he reserved for her during his lectures. She'd adored him, all right.

  "He's still single, you know." Angora wagged her eyebrows. "The newsletter I got a couple of months ago said he was going to auction himself off for a fund-raiser during Homecoming."

  "I saw that issue."

  Angora sighed. "Wonder what a man like that would go for?"

  Roxann opted for silence again, but computed the amount in her IRA.

  Angora yawned. "The rest of my list makes no sense—what's a 'spebanker'?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Well, I wanted to own one."

  "You wanted to own one of everything."

  "What are your last two?"

  Roxann looked at her list, then swallowed hard. Have a daughter. Be a good mother. "Uh...mine are unreadable, too. I guess we fell asleep."

  Angora laughed. "Or passed out. You know what we should do, Roxann?"

  "I'm afraid to ask."

  Her cousin's jaw seemed a little loose, and her eyes were bleary. "We should take a vacation and mark off some of the items on our list."

  Roxann laughed—go on vacation with Angora? "You're nuts."

  "Why not? I'm supposed to be on my honeymoon for three weeks." Her face lit up. "Hey—we could go back to South Bend for Homecoming!"

  Her heart thumped faster. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

  "Oh, come on, wouldn't you like to see Dr. Carl again and see how he turned out?"

  More than anything. "I still don't think—"

  Angora's snore cut her off. Her cousin had fallen asleep sitting up, holding her glass and wearing her crown.