Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  Roxann nudged herself up slowly to prevent a head rush. She retrieved Angora's drink, then made her stretch out on the bed. Angora emitted little sounds of protest and refused to relinquish her crown. Roxann gathered up the remains of their meal and tiptoed from the room—although she was sure her cousin wouldn't have heard a plane land on the roof.

  She walked to the old phone mounted on the kitchen wall and, after consulting directory assistance, dialed Angora's parents' home. Of course, Dee answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Dee, this is Roxann."

  "Where is my daughter?"

  "She's with me, at my dad's."

  "You kidnapped her."

  "She's an adult."

  "You always were a bad influence on her."

  "Angora's fine, thanks for asking."

  "Why, you—"

  "I'll bring her home in the morning, but don't worry, I won't come in. Bye, now." She hung up the phone, wondering why people had kids at all if they didn't give a damn about them.

  Nine thirty-five p.m.—what a day. She stuffed the pizza box into the trash. Fatigue pulled at her limbs, but her mind raced, refusing to shut down. Yesterday's events in Biloxi...today's events at the church...being home where the memories were relentless. The alcohol should have numbed her, but instead, seemed to have keened her senses, magnifying the panic, the anxiety, the sadness.

  An alien sound sent fear bolting through her, until she recognized the ring of her father's phone. It was probably Dee calling back, so she wasn't about to answer it. After three rings, though, an answering machine kicked on in the bedroom. She had sent the machine to her father for Christmas, although she was sure he wouldn't use it. In fairness, though, she hadn't called enough to know.

  Curious as to what her aunt would say for herself, she walked into the bedroom and leaned against the door, arms crossed as her father's raspy voice trailed off and the tone sounded. But instead of Dee's unbearable high-pitched whine, a man's voice came on the line. A familiar man's voice.

  "Mr. Beadleman, this is Detective Capistrano from the Biloxi Police Department. I'm looking for your daughter, Roxann. If you've heard from her or seen her in the last twenty-four hours, please call me back at—"

  She snatched up the phone and fairly hissed into the receiver. "How dare you call my father's home."

  "Good, you're there. Saves me a heap of paperwork."

  She squeezed the phone, wishing it were his red neck. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I went by your place a while ago to finish our conversation. Remodeling?"

  "Funny."

  "Do you know who did it?"

  "You came to mind."

  "I'm much neater when I break and enter."

  "Why are you calling?"

  "When I saw the mess, I started thinking maybe Frank Cape had dropped by to bully you into giving up his wife's hiding place."

  "You're the only bully I've encountered, Detective."

  "Then you're unharmed."

  "Unemployed and unharmed."

  He sighed. "Is that why you're in Baton Rouge? To look for a job?"

  "That's none of your business. How did you find me?"

  "I took a chance that you would run home to Daddy if you were frightened."

  The gross misinterpretation of her relationship with her father made her want to laugh...and cry. "I'm not frightened."

  "You should be. Has it occurred to you that if I could track you down in a single phone call, Frank Cape could do the same?"

  "You're assuming, Detective, that he's the one who ransacked my place."

  "You have other enemies?"

  She certainly didn't want to get into the other suspects—Elise, Richard. "It might have been a random crime."

  "Then you should consider moving to a better neighborhood."

  She smirked. "I'll do that, Detective, as soon as I get a job."

  "That 'got your number' message on your computer screen—does it have something to do with the break-in?"

  "You went inside?"

  "How else was I going to make sure you hadn't been stuffed in the refrigerator?"

  Oh. "Yes, whoever broke in left the message, but I don't know what it means."

  "Old boyfriend?" He sounded dubious.

  Roxann frowned. "It's possible, but not likely."

  "Did you file a police report?"

  "No. Because I thought it might have been you."

  He scoffed. "Have you changed your mind about cooperating?"

  "No."

  "I can protect you from Cape."

  "I can protect myself."

  "Is your father home?"

  "He's gone for the weekend."

  "Don't tell me you're alone."

  "My cousin is here."

  "In the event Cape drops by, is your cousin a big strapping guy?"

  "No, but she could talk him to death."

  "Christ. Do you have a gun?"

  "No. I have pepper spray."

  "Christ. I have your father's address, I'll be there by daybreak. Stay put."

  "Don't—" But he'd already hung up. Roxann cursed and flailed for a full minute before she realized it was just the kind of hysterics that Capistrano would have expected. She counted to ten to calm her thinking, then used her cell phone to call Tom Atlas, her supervisor at Rescue.

  "Roxann, I was just about to call." His tone was rushed, elevated. "Where are you?"

  "At my father's in Baton Rouge."

  "Get out of there, pronto."

  "What's wrong?"

  "After you called me about the break-in, I left a message with Melissa Cape's sister. She just called back to tell me that Frank is on the warpath. Said he was going to find you and make you take him to Melissa. He has a dossier on you—where you live, where you work, where you grew up." Tom paused to take a breath. "He was making threats against your family, Roxann."

  Her throat convulsed—if something happened to her father because of her, she couldn't bear it.

  "Unfortunately, there's no money for a hotel. Do you have someone you can stay with for a while? Somewhere Cape wouldn't find you?"

  Her sluggish mind chugged away until Dr. Nell Oney's sweet face materialized. "I have a friend associated with the organization I can call. I'm sure she'd put me up for a few days."

  "Good. Keep me posted on your whereabouts."

  Roxann disconnected the call and extinguished all the lights, then with heart racing double-time, checked every window in the house to make sure they were locked securely. She flipped on the outside lights, irritated to discover that most of the bulbs were out. Frank Cape would be glad to know he had her completely spooked, although she was slightly relieved to know who was behind the break-in. Pure luck must have kept their paths from crossing at 255 Amberjack, Unit B.

  With a shaky hand, she punched in Dr. Oney's number by the glow of a flashlight, weak with relief when her voice came on the line.

  "Dr. Oney, it's Roxann Beadleman. Do you remember me?"

  "Roxann? Of course I do. I've been hearing such good things about you through Rescue. Are you coming to South Bend for Homecoming?"

  Her chest welled with emotion at the warmth in Nell's voice—she hadn't realized how much she missed her. "Not exactly," she hedged. "Although I could use a place to stay for a few days."

  "Are you in trouble?"

  "Just a disgruntled ex-husband of a woman I relocated a couple of weeks ago."

  "Ah—been there. Usually the bullies are more bark than bite, but there's no reason to take chances. And I'd love to see you again—why have you stayed away so long?"

  "I've...been busy."

  "Are you married?"

  "No."

  "Kids?"

  "No. I'll be coming by myself." She glanced toward the bedroom. Once she got rid of Angora, that is.

  "When can I expect you?"

  "I'm not sure—I might avoid the interstates."

  "Good idea. Don't hurry, I'll see you when I see you. Do you re
member where I live?"

  "Yes." The few times she'd been to Dr. Oney's cozy little home, she hadn't wanted to leave.

  "I'll put a key under a flowerpot. You've been on my mind lately, Roxann—I saw an old photo of you in the alumni newsletter."

  "That rally seems like a lifetime ago."

  Dr. Oney laughed. "It was. I can't wait to see you and catch up."

  Roxann smiled into the phone, immensely cheered. She thanked Dr. Oney and hung up, then sank into her father's indented recliner, oddly comforted by its contours even as her body twitched to be on the road. But she'd have to wait until the alcohol wore off. At least she'd be gone by the time Capistrano arrived. Bothersome fool. She'd let him drive to Baton Rouge in case he crossed paths with Cape—better him than her father—but the detective needn't know where she was headed.

  She sighed and sat back in the dark, pulling her legs up under her. How strange that she and Angora had spent the evening reminiscing, and now it looked as if she were bound for South Bend, Indiana, after all. Back to Carl—number thirty-three on her life list. Maybe this would be her opportunity to satisfy her burning curiosity about the man who had inspired her to make a difference in the world.

  Roxann closed her eyes and conjured up his face. With the situation she was in, and the slump she'd experienced lately, she could certainly use a little inspiration. She'd never believed in premonition, but she had the queerest feeling of being pushed in a certain direction, as if she were careening toward the rest of her life. And that Carl Seger was destined to play a major role.

  Chapter Nine

  ANGORA SMILED AND WAVED to the crowd. Thousands of bulbs flashed. Here she was, Miss America. The first woman to break the age barrier. Who needed a husband and a career when you had a sash and a crown?

  "Congratulations, Angora. Angora...Angora..."

  "Angora?"

  She opened her eyes and blinked her cousin Roxann into view. Why was Roxann in Atlantic City?

  "Angora, something's come up. I have to leave."

  She squinted. "Hmm?"

  "Wake up, Angora. We have to go."

  She moved her tongue, only to discover that someone had deposited something foul in her mouth. "Ugh. Where am I?"

  "You spent the night at my dad's. Can you sit up?"

  "Why wouldn't I be able to sit up?" She sat up, and a bomb exploded in her head. "Ohhhhhh."

  "I brought you some aspirin."

  "Shhhh!"

  "Take deep breaths."

  On the third deep breath, her stomach vaulted to her throat. She barely made it to the bathroom before everything she'd ingested the night before came surging toward daylight. Oh, God, she'd never eat pepperoni pizza again. In fact, she might never eat again, period. The Hangover Diet. Maybe she'd finally shed those ten pounds that had eluded her since puberty.

  Roxann handed her a cool cloth, and she buried her face in it. Then yesterday's events came flooding back to her—the shame, the disappointment—and she wanted never to lift her head again. The next few years of her life, so carefully planned as late as yesterday, now stretched before her...empty...lonely...not rich. She would be damaged goods in the eyes of the families that belonged to the club, forever referred to as "the jilted one." And Dee would never let her live down this fiasco.

  "Try to swallow these aspirin," Roxann urged. "It helped me."

  "If I die," she whispered, "don't let the coroner take a picture of me like this."

  "Don't worry—I'd fix your hair first. Can you make it to the bed?"

  "Only if you bring the bed into the bathroom."

  "Come on, up you go."

  Angora groaned as she became vertical again. The bed was a mile away, but she finally reached the end of it and eased down to a sitting position. "Why do I feel like hell and you don't?"

  "Because my body is used to processing more than carrots and popcorn."

  Roxann was right, of course. Roxann was always right. Her cousin's duffel bag sat on the floor, zipped and ready to go. "Did you say you have to leave?"

  "Yes—as soon as possible. I found a pair of Dad's sweatpants for you to wear, and a flannel shirt."

  Angora peered at the darkened window. "What time is it?"

  "Four-thirty."

  "In the morning?" She hadn't been up at four-thirty in the morning since...wait—she'd never been up at four-thirty in the morning.

  "Sorry—I really need to get going."

  "Back to Biloxi?"

  "Eventually. I have a few stops to make first."

  "Take me with you."

  Roxann shook her head. "I can't."

  "Please, Roxann? I can't face everyone, not yet." And not like this.

  "I called your parents last night and told them you were all right."

  "Thanks." She bit into her bottom lip. "Were they worried?"

  "Absolutely."

  A sliver of happiness cut through the disappointment that cocooned her heart. If they were worried now, think how much more worried they'd be if she didn't come home right away. "I don't want to go home."

  "Okay, then I'll take you to a friend's."

  Her mind wasn't operating at top speed, but she had the feeling that even if she weren't hung over, she wouldn't be able to come up with a name.

  "Angora?"

  "I'm thinking."

  Roxann sighed. "How about your maid of honor?"

  "Amanda Whittaker? We're not that close."

  "Then why did you ask her to be your maid of honor?"

  "Because she asked me to be hers last year."

  "Come on, Angora—there must have been twenty girls up there with you."

  "Twenty-four. You know, I wanted to ask you to be a bridesmaid."

  "I'm...flattered."

  "Dee had a fit, though, and I was pretty sure I'd never get you in a pink dress anyway."

  "I guess you were the one who sent me the invitation?"

  She nodded. "I wasn't sure you'd get it, but I'm glad you did."

  "So am I. I think. Angora, you're not close to any of the women in your wedding party?"

  "To Trenton's three sisters, I thought. But I heard them saying nasty things about me in the bathroom at my bridal shower." She's not very bright, is she? No, and she's chunky. I don't know what Trenton sees in her.

  "What about a coworker?"

  "The only person I associate with outside of work is my boss, and that's only because he's a friend of Dee's." Her coworkers had made it clear that since she'd gotten the job because of her connections, they weren't about to include her in their art-uppity circle. They seemed to enjoy talking over her head, discussing artists and paintings that she had to look up during her lunch hour. She was sure they had come to the wedding for the shrimp cocktail.

  "There must be someone."

  "Maybe I should just go with you."

  But Roxann shook her head. "Sorry."

  She lifted her arms and allowed Roxann to pull off the hideous tie-dyed T-shirt. "I won't be any trouble."

  "Angora, you can't help but be trouble."

  "I know." She sniffled.

  "Don't start crying, your head will hurt worse."

  "It can't hurt worse," she mumbled as she shrugged into the flannel shirt Roxann held behind her. "And these thongs of yours make me feel like I had a wedding night after all."

  "You'll feel better once you can rest in your own bed in your own underwear."

  Angora relented, knowing that her cousin didn't want to be bothered with her on whatever exciting adventure she was off to next. No one wanted to be bothered with her. She choked back a sob, and tugged on gray sweatpants that swallowed her, tummy bulge and all. She looked like a bum, but her only alternative was to wear her wedding gown home, and she wasn't about to try to get back into that torture garb. "What will I do for shoes?"

  "I have an extra pair of sneakers."

  "But you wear a size six and a half, and I need at least an eight."

  Roxann frowned. "You remember my shoe size?"
/>   She remembered a lot about Roxann. In fact, from those few months rooming together, she probably knew more about her aloof cousin, and had revealed more of herself to Roxann, than anyone else on earth.

  "Well, I might be able to find a pair of Dad's house shoes."

  "Never mind," she said, standing and holding on to her head to keep it from flying apart. "I'll wear my pumps. Might as well get one more wear out of them, considering they cost as much as the plane tickets to Hawaii." Dee wouldn't be up anyway, to be scandalized by her appearance. She wadded up the dress that she'd spent so many hours searching for and stuffed it under her arm. "I'm ready." Not really, but she was trying to prove to Roxann that she could be brave, too.

  Roxann picked up her duffel and led the way back through the cramped little house, which seemed much neater and smelled a little nicer than the previous evening—for that, her stomach was grateful. When had Roxann had time to clean? As always, she seemed capable of doing everything at once. Envy barbed through her—was there anything her cousin couldn't do?

  Roxann turned when they reached the side door. "Stay here until I tell you to come out."

  Angora frowned. "Why?"

  "Because...this isn't the best neighborhood. Sometimes homeless people sleep under the carports."

  She watched as Roxann slipped out, her hand inside her duffel bag, probably on the pepper spray can. Her cousin was so brave. In the dim light of a naked bulb, Roxann walked all around the van, then signaled her to come out.

  Angora stepped down onto the uneven concrete and promptly twisted her ankle in the high heels, but recovered adequately. It was still dark out, the air wet and cool. The tang of garbage from a nearby Dumpster burned her nostrils and toyed with her unsettled stomach. Still, the lights in the small houses across the road, silhouetting people moving around in their kitchens, probably getting ready to go to work at the electric plant, was somehow comforting. Living in a tight-knit neighborhood must have been so fun growing up, with kids everywhere, and fire hydrants opened wide in the dog days of summer. Since she had no friends of her own, she'd always hoped Roxann would invite her over to play with hers. Dee wouldn't have agreed, of course, but she'd wished anyway.

  She opened the creaky door to the van and pulled herself up, wincing against the pain in her skull, then tossed the wedding gown in the backseat. The vehicle had a peculiar odor, raising questions about what kinds of exotic things had taken place inside. Stakeouts with lots of take-out food? Sleeping on an air mattress, hiding out from the law? Transporting entire families and their belongings?