Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  "But you were right."

  "And you had to kill a man because of me."

  He leaned forward. "I had to kill a man because of the man. Which never feels good, but at least I know Cape was guilty of some pretty crummy things. End of story."

  Roxann glanced to the window—both men had their backs turned, their heads close in discussion. She reached for the journal that covered 1996 and flipped through the distorted pages.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Just let me know when they're coming back."

  Depending on what kind of pen he'd used, the words were sometimes blurred, sometimes merged, sometimes gone. She recalled that, unfortunately, Carl had preferred to use a fountain pen, which ran easily. The entry on the date Angora had given her—April 21, 1996—was blurred, but she was able to make out the shadows of some pertinent words: blonde...theology class...office...fellatio...shoes. Bile backed up in her mouth—he hadn't even mentioned Angora's name. He probably hadn't even known her name, or hadn't bothered to remember it.

  "Bastard," she muttered.

  "Was that meant for me?" he asked wryly.

  "No, keep watching."

  Another volume covered 1992. Thanks to the date on their life lists, she knew the date of Tammy Paulen's memorial service. The girl had died two days prior, so Roxann quickly found the relevant pages, but they were a soggy mess. She thought she made out the capital letter T on a couple of pages, but she couldn't be sure.

  "Better wrap it up," Capistrano said. "I think they're finished."

  A few seconds later, Mason and Jaffey returned, neither one of them looking fulfilled.

  "I'll drop the charges pending against you and your cousin," Mason said, "but only if you two pass polygraphs, and I mean with flying colors."

  The best news she'd heard in what seemed like years. She swallowed and nodded gratefully.

  "You and Ms. Ryder be in my office Monday afternoon, prepared to tell the truth."

  She nodded again.

  "As for you," Detective Jaffey said to Capistrano. "Since you were in South Bend on police business, we're going to pretend that you were actually invited to help us on this case while you were here. As far as the public is concerned, you were acting on behalf of our police department when you shot Cape. When you return to Biloxi, you'll be placed on desk duty for the minimum time required by our department after a shooting, which is forty-five days."

  Capistrano nodded and rose to shake Jaffey's hand. "Sounds fair."

  "It's a goddamn gift," the man said, returning a brief shake. "I also want you to get the hell out of my town first thing in the morning."

  "Agreed."

  "All right, both of you, get out of here before we change our minds."

  Roxann bolted to her feet and headed for the door. Capistrano thanked the men again and led the way out of the station. They didn't speak until they were in the Dooley, shivering and waiting for the engine to warm up and the windshield to de-ice. "That was close," he said.

  The understatement of the century, she thought, utterly weak with relief that Carl's murderer had been caught and Melissa Cape had been let off the hook—the woman would probably be relieved when she discovered her ex-husband was dead.

  But deep down, Roxann harbored a selfish little flame—the secret she and Angora had maintained for years hadn't come to light after all. It had been a fluke that Cape had chosen a blond wig to attach to the dashboard of her van. She had simply overreacted, reading more into the deed than was warranted. She was safe from everything but herself.

  "About the hotel room," Capistrano said, putting the truck into gear.

  "Don't worry—I'm too tired and too cold to argue."

  He didn't argue with her not arguing, but the drive to the hotel took a long time since he had to watch for icy spots. "What was it like going to school here?" he asked.

  "It was heaven," she said. "I loved every minute of it. The campus is so beautiful, and the atmosphere...I can't explain it—everyone was so hungry to learn and experience things. I'd never known intellectual freedom like that before. I know it's a huge campus, but it seemed intimate when I was here. Like we were in a little world of our own. I didn't want to leave." She smiled. "I know that sounds silly. Did you go to college?"

  He nodded. "Criminology, Mississippi State. But I couldn't wait to get out and go to the police academy."

  "Do you like what you do?"

  "Most days I love what I do. And even on off days, I can't imagine anything I'd like better."

  "That must be nice, to have found your calling."

  "Haven't you found yours?"

  She shook her head. "I resigned from the Rescue program."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm not convinced that my contribution is making a difference. I sort of feel like a stick in a bucket of water—if you took it out, no one would know it had ever been there."

  "Ah, but you're concentrating on how the water was affected, and not the stick."

  She digested his response, wondering how much psychology a person had to study to earn a criminology degree.

  "So you're free to live anywhere?" he asked, wisely changing the subject.

  "I suppose."

  She waited for his comment, but he offered none, which was even more vexing. They traveled in silence the rest of the way. Her limbs sang with fatigue, and her jaw throbbed where Cape had hit her. Beneath the blanket, her clothes and shoes were still wet. A permanent chill had invaded her skin. She needed to call Angora, but she decided to wait until morning and perhaps deliver the good news in person. For now, she just wanted to be horizontal for several hours.

  She started peeling off wet clothes before he even unlocked the hotel room door. He'd already seen everything she had at close range, so modesty seemed pointless. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She sat down on the bed to remove her socks, then unhooked her bra.

  He came back out and jerked his thumb toward the open door. "You go first." But his gaze moved over her unabashedly.

  Roxann stood and walked to the bathroom door, then turned. "We could share."

  He started walking, removing his clothing along the way. She slipped into the shower first, wincing against the stinging needles of the hot water against her cold skin. She washed her hair, dragging her nails over her scalp again and again. She'd rather gotten used to the extensions and was considering letting her hair grow. Angora would be pleased to know she had managed to erode Roxann's aversion to all things inherently feminine.

  The door to the glass enclosure opened and he stepped in behind her. With a thick white washcloth, he rubbed her arms, back, and stomach, massaging in the soothing lather of the evergreen soap. Slowly, slowly, she warmed beneath the pressure of his hands. Then she returned the favor, enjoying the way her touch affected him. When her fingers played over the scar on his lower shoulder, and the bruises on his legs, she was reminded of how close he'd come to dying tonight at the hands of Cape. And if he hadn't risked his life, who knew what Cape might have done to her to persuade her to talk?

  When Capistrano kissed her breasts, she didn't stop him. When his ministrations intensified, she didn't stop him. And when he lifted her against the tile wall to join their bodies, she opened her knees to receive him. He rocked his hips into hers, taking her breath away. They found their rhythm to the song of mingled moans and mutual words of encouragement. The exquisite synchronization of their stroke obliterated the anger and fear and frustration of the past several days. She came explosively, a full-body contraction that depleted him seconds later. They recovered slowly, then cut off the water, wrapped themselves in towels, and fell into bed.

  "That didn't mean anything," she murmured against his arm.

  "I know," he whispered back.

  Her dreams were profound and troubling, disjointed and colorful. Carl, Elise, Richard, Dee, Cape. Everyone wanted a piece of her. Worse—they'd found out her secret and were holding it over her head.

  Roxann started
awake. The room was dark, but slivers of daylight shone between the drawn curtains. She turned her head to look at the clock—ten-thirty on Sunday morning. She would try to make it to evening mass at the university cathedral. She had plenty to be grateful for today.

  But meanwhile, she was wrapped around Capistrano like a beer huggy. Their towels had become tangled with the bedcovers, and she couldn't tell whose legs were whose. He sighed heavily, as if resetting his breathing tempo. Lifting her head, she took advantage of the opportunity to study him.

  His profile remained rigid, even in repose. But his brow was more relaxed and his jaw unclenched, shaving years from his face. His beard, darker than his auburn hair, hovered just below the surface of his skin. His tousled hair gave him a boyish appearance, and she could easily imagine him at twenty-five, eighteen, twelve, six years old.

  Capistrano stirred and his arm tightened around her involuntarily. Not an unpleasant feeling. His head was propped up on two pillows, and the sheet rode down to his waist. Massive shoulders and arms, impressive pecs, and a narrow waist. She decided she liked the hairy chest after all—it was...insulating. His morning call tented the sheet and sent a twinge to her thighs.

  This was the kind of man, she realized, that incited career women to trade in their navy pumps for a breast pump—being around a man so male couldn't help but make you feel vigorously female. Her ovaries were probably straining against her birth control at this very moment.

  Across the room, a phone pealed—his cell phone. Since he was immediately awake and across the room in three strides, she imagined he'd been awakened similarly many times before.

  "Yeah?" he said, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. His hair stuck out at odd angles. Seconds later, he smiled—whoever was on the other end was someone he was glad to hear from. "Oh, hi, Betty...no, it's fine. Just a late night is all."

  She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed and covered herself with a towel. Her limbs ached.

  "Really? That's great. I'm headed home today, so I'll stop by tomorrow...sure thing, see you then." He disconnected the call, his sleepy face wreathed in smiles. "That was my partner's wife—Lafferty came out of the coma this morning. The doctors say he has a good chance of a full recovery."

  Roxann's smile mirrored his. "That is good news." And a fitting close to their time together. From the rueful look on his face, she knew he was thinking the same thing.

  "I thought I'd go to the hospital early this morning to see Angora," she said with forced animation. "And I need to call Melissa, and Nell, and Dad and...Triple-A."

  He nodded. "I guess I need to get on the road myself."

  She hadn't had a one-night stand in so long, she'd forgotten how awkward the morning after could be. After a strained silence, he turned and disappeared into the bathroom—a strategy she'd used herself a few times. Taking her cue, she dressed hurriedly and tamed her hair, then straightened the covers—an unmade bed seemed so...reproachful. Then she called her road-service club and arranged to have Goldie towed to a nearby tire place.

  The call to Melissa was difficult, but since she'd witnessed Frank's death, she felt obligated to tell her. Melissa cried, but Roxann wondered how much of the emotion was relief that she was finally rid of the man.

  And she was talking to her father when Capistrano emerged, shaved and combed. There was something very disconcerting about talking to your father on the phone when there was a naked man in the room.

  She averted her eyes. "So I should be in Baton Rouge by Wednesday."

  "Are you bringing Angora home?"

  "I suspect she'll go home with her parents once we get things wrapped up."

  "Will you be able to stay here for a while?"

  "If you...don't mind."

  "That would be nice," he said. "Now that the case is solved, will you still be seeing that Capistrano fellow?"

  She looked at Capistrano, who had donned jeans and was pulling a T-shirt over his head. She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. "Dad, I was never seeing him."

  "Tell him I said thank you for keeping an eye on my best girl."

  She blinked. "O...kay." Her father had never called her his best anything. "I'll be there in a couple of days, all right?" She hung up the phone, marveling.

  "I'm sure your father's relieved," Capistrano offered, then pulled on a dark green sweatshirt over the T-shirt.

  "He said to give you his thanks for...taking care of me."

  He pursed his mouth and sat down on the opposite bed to pull on socks and athletic shoes. "It was my pleasure," he said without looking up. He finished tying, then stood. "Did you call someone about your van?"

  She bristled at his insinuation that she needed to be reminded. "Contrary to popular belief, Detective, I've been taking care of myself for a long time. And outside of maniacal stalkers, I think I've done pretty well."

  His eyebrows rose. "I'm getting the hint that you don't want anyone to care about you."

  "That's not true."

  "Okay, then you don't want me to care about you."

  She crossed her arms and shook her head. "Don't do this, Detective. Last night was...what it was—two people who needed each other. For last night."

  "Whatever you say." He stuffed clothes into a duffel bag, then zipped it. "Do you need a ride to the hospital?"

  She shook her head. "Thanks, but I have more calls to make."

  "The room is paid for until the end of the week."

  "That's not necessary," she protested.

  "It's already done," he said, exasperated. "Christ, Roxann, why won't you let anyone help you? Are you afraid you might have to get close to someone?"

  She set her jaw. "Don't talk to me like that—you don't know me."

  He slung the duffel to his shoulder and gathered the stack of files. "As you've informed me several times." A small laugh escaped him. "I hope you get past whatever is keeping you from living." He walked to the door and yanked it open. "If you do...you've got my number."

  Chapter Thirty-one

  THE CLICK OF THE DOOR closing might as well have been a slam. Roxann sat rigid on the bed, fighting ridiculous tears. She was not about to be goaded into a relationship with no foundation other than sex, because she suspected she could get used to his company. And right now she needed to concentrate on getting her life back together—finding a new job and place to live, reconciling with her father. It was just like a man to expect a woman to make room for him in her life just because he was—how did he put it—interested? What a crock.

  She sniffed mightily and leaned over to pull the broken Magic 8 Ball out of the junk box on the floor. She smirked, conceding that she was chasing a thrill by asking, "Is Detective Joe Capistrano madly in love with me?" She turned over the toy.

  Don't count on it.

  And there she had it—her love life in a nutshell. She had run out of Yes, definitelys.

  She called the hospital and asked for Angora's room, thinking she'd give her the basics of Mason's deal until she could get there and explain everything fully.

  "Hello?" Angora asked.

  "Hi, it's Roxann."

  "There you are—no one knew how to get in touch with you. Have you heard the good news? We're not murderers."

  Roxann laughed. "That's a relief. So you heard about Cape?"

  "The police held a press conference a couple of hours ago. We've been celebrating with red Jell-O."

  "We?"

  "Mother and Dad and Mike and me. Oh, and Nell is coming by."

  Roxann frowned. "Nell?"

  "She's looking for you, and I told her to come on over because I was sure you'd call or drop by."

  "When did she get back in town?"

  "Overnight bus. She said the chancellor of the university called her at two o'clock this morning to give her the good news about Cape. Are you coming?"

  "Yes. Mason still wants us to take a polygraph—tomorrow afternoon."

  "Then can we go home?"

  "As soon as you're up to i
t."

  "I'm still plenty sore, but I'm ready to get out of here."

  "Me, too. I'll see you in a few minutes. Oh...is Dee there?"

  "Nope. She and Father went out for brunch. They promised to sneak me in a mimosa."

  "Do you need anything else?"

  "A box of Ho Hos would be nice."

  She grinned. "I'll see what I can do." She gave Angora the number at the hotel and her room number, then hung up, feeling better than in weeks, maybe months. It was scary to think how close they'd come to being tried for a crime they didn't commit. She picked up the Magic 8 Ball and turned it over several times.

  Yes, definitely.

  Yes, definitely.

  Yes, definitely.

  "Oh, now you say yes," she muttered.

  The phone rang, startling her so badly she dropped the ball and watched it roll under the credenza as she picked up the receiver. It was probably Angora getting in her order for a supersized bag of Cheetos. "Hello?"

  "Is this Roxann Beadleman?" a woman asked.

  "Yes. Who's this?"

  "My name is Tanya Chasen—you called the alumni office yesterday asking for help locating Elise James."

  "Yes, I know she participated in a couple of fund-raising events—I thought the office might have a record of where she's staying while she's in town."

  "Are you a friend of Elise's?"

  "Yes. We were roommates until about two months ago."

  "Oh. Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Elise is...dead."

  Her throat closed. "Wh-what happened?"

  "Drug overdose. Her body was found in the bathroom of a local club a couple of nights ago, with no ID. The morgue was holding her as a Jane Doe until someone thought to bring her picture to our office. We identified her from a photo taken during a marathon last weekend." The woman's voice broke. "She came in second place."

  Overdose. Roxann was shocked, but not surprised—Elise seemed determined to play Russian roulette with every known vice, yet push herself to the limit as an athlete. She thanked the woman and hung up slowly. Carl, dead. Elise, dead. It was almost too much to absorb. She allowed the news to sink in, then sent a prayer to the ceiling for Elise, remorseful that she had suspected the woman of ransacking her apartment, and far worse—of killing Carl. Poor Elise was a mixed-up soul, searching for an excuse and a panacea, and she'd found neither in her short life.