My Funny Valentine

by Caroline Fardig

  “Oh, right, Crystal. Of course I remember you. I’m sorry. Sometimes when I’m on a mission I get too focused and—”

  “It’s okay, I know I look different.” An awkward silence fills the air until she adds, “I’m clean now, though, and I’m saving up for a new set of teeth.”

  I smile. “Good for you, Crystal. And thanks for your time.” I nudge Blake.

  He quickly gets out his wallet and starts to take money out, but Crystal puts out her hands. “You don’t have to pay me,” she says.

  Blake hands her several bills. “No, we insist. Put it toward getting your teeth.”

  Crystal holds the bills up in front of her face and squeals. She throws her arms around both of us, then hurries off, tottering down the street in her high heels.

  I smile up at Blake. “You didn’t have to give her three hundred dollars, but thank you.”

  He grabs me by the waist and pulls me to him. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m feeling generous.”

  “About that…do you think maybe we should put off our plans for tonight? We still have a lot of work to do on this case, and we need all the time we can get.”

  He frowns. “Absolutely not. If anything, we deserve a break. Meet me at our house at six. Not a minute before.”

  “You said ‘our house.’ ”

  Giving me a kiss, he replies, “What’s mine is yours.”

  Behind him, across the small lake, which is actually a man-made pond in the middle of town, I notice a vehicle stopped on the side of the road. It’s far away, but I can see a person sitting in it. A shiver runs down my spine.

  “Are you okay?” Blake asks.

  I shake my head. “I have the feeling we’re being watched.”

  “Really?” he asks, turning to look behind him.

  “It’s that red car on the far side of the lake.”

  He shrugs. “It’s probably nothing, but let’s get out of here anyway.”

  ***

  After grabbing our lunch to go, Blake and I head back to the office and get to work, both of us more confused than ever. If the mayor’s child is a woman, that means Bret is not the mayor’s child. Maybe worrying about this child is a total waste of time. For all we know, she could be living in Timbuktu. It’s hurting my head to think about it, so I decide to jump in and proofread Blake’s big headline article about the mayor’s death.

  After an hour, my neck has a major crick in it and my eyes are hurting from staring at my computer screen, but I have the article proofed. The worst part is I have to tell Blake his article is total crap.

  I go over and perch on the edge of his desk, giving him my kindest smile. “Blake, sweetheart, love of my life. I hate to be the one to point this out, but since it’s kind of my job…”

  He looks over at me and sighs. “You’re going to slash up my story, aren’t you, copy editor?”

  “Well…yes. I know you titled it ‘Liberty Mourns the Loss of Its Leader,’ but it reads more like ‘See You in Hell, You Dirty Son of a Bitch.’ Maybe you could tone it down just a smidge.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time today for rewrites,” he gripes.

  “Yes, but since this is the big story, I think you should make time.”

  Grumbling, he turns his attention back to his computer screen, which is my cue to leave.

  I go back to my desk and immerse myself in my copyediting, working to get caught back up after my largely unproductive morning. My mind keeps wandering back to the connection between Bret and Mayor Taggart. It all comes down to Bret’s mother, and we have no idea who she is.

  At five minutes before quitting time, a thought pops into my head. Mr. Mason brought the Chronicle into the digital age a year ago, creating a database of news articles going back to when the paper was first published. The articles were scanned in, and keywords like names and places were pulled from the articles and put in a searchable database. If Bret Howell was born in Liberty and his birth announcement (which would list his mother’s name) was in the paper, I could find it.

  I pull up the database and type in “Bret Howell.” Several articles pop up, the first of which is his birth announcement. Jackpot. I scan the article. His mother is listed as Jennifer Howell. No mention of a father. Hmm. I suppose Crystal could have been mistaken about the mayor’s love child being a female. That’s not enough to take to the police, though. I keep digging, and after skimming a couple of articles about Bret’s high school baseball career, I finally find something usable. Bret has a record, all right. He was arrested twelve years ago for domestic assault and did a year in prison for it. He was only eighteen at the time, quite possibly still living at home with his mother. If he in fact had assaulted his mother, who raised him, what would keep him from turning his aggression on his father, who had abandoned him? But there’s still the sticky fact that I have no freaking clue if Mayor Taggart was his father.

  Just for fun, I search “Jennifer Howell.” Bret’s birth announcement pops up again, as well as a news story about a car accident and an obituary. Her obituary. Holy shit. She died not long after Bret was convicted of assault. When I compare the dates, I find that Bret started serving his sentence twelve years ago in April, and his mother died that same year in June. Bret was in prison when his mother died. Ouch. I begin reading the story about the car accident, learning that she was killed in a hit-and-run collision, and I nearly fall out of my chair. I reread the last two sentences to make sure I didn’t misread them: Jennifer Powell was the passenger in a vehicle driven by Harold Taggart, which was T-boned by an unknown sedan. Taggart was unharmed.

  Well, I think I’ve finally found enough pieces to the Bret Howell story to pique the interest of the police. I turn around in my chair to tell Blake the good news, but he’s already gone for the day. He’s working on a surprise for me tonight at his house to celebrate Valentine’s Day, and he’s been super-secretive about it. I can’t even set foot in the place for another hour, which means I have plenty of time to work on a great surprise for him—getting his name cleared with the police once and for all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Since I’m a concerned citizen bringing information to the police and not here to be interrogated like a common criminal, I get to stay on the main floor of the police station. I’m even escorted kindly to William Johnson’s desk and offered a seat next to it.

  “It’s nice to see you’re in a better mood today, Lizzie,” William says.

  I smile, “Well, it’s not every day I get to crack a murder case for you, Detective.”

  He gives me a condescending look. “Sleuthing again, are we? That usually doesn’t work out too well for you.”

  “What do you mean? I’m three for three.” I wave the manila folder I’m holding in his face. “And as soon as I give you the information in this folder, I’ll be four for four.”

  He reaches for my folder. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  I pull it back before he can grab it. “Not so fast. I want Blake Morgan and John Barnes completely exonerated.”

  “I make no promises. If they’re innocent, the evidence will prove it.”

  I glare at him and open the folder. I hand him copies of the articles I’d found earlier. “Bret Howell was working our party the night of Mayor Taggart’s murder. He had a verbal altercation with the mayor and was seen going outside just before the mayor was killed. He had a known vendetta against the mayor, and as you’ll read in these articles, Harold Taggart was driving the vehicle during the accident in which Bret’s mother was killed. Bret was doing a year in prison for domestic abuse (quite possibly against his mother) when she died, so he probably didn’t even get to go to the funeral. Add it all up.”

  William is frowning, shuffling through the articles. He types something into his computer and peers at the screen. “We questioned Bret Howell, and what he said seemed to check out. He said he hadn’t been outside and didn’t know the mayor personally.”

  “He could have lied to you, you know.”

  He ignore
s my comment. “He did admit to trying to deny the mayor another drink and getting reamed for it, but that’s it. Where are you getting your other information about him going outside and having a vendetta?”

  “From one of his co-workers, Amber DeLong. She saw him go outside.”

  “Amber DeLong…” He types something into his computer again and frowns. “We didn’t talk to anyone named Amber DeLong.”

  “She said she talked to you.”

  Frowning, William turns back to his computer. “I thought all the interviews had been entered already.”

  “Crack police work there, losing the info from a key witness.” I stand up. “I have to go. I’ve got a Valentine’s date to get to at my fiancé’s house. I’ve handed you the perfect suspect, William. It’s up to you now.”

  As I turn to leave, he catches my arm, growling, “You know, I’ve given you a lot of passes over the years because we’re friends. But I’m tired of your meddling and your armchair quarterbacking. Not only that, it’s double the work for me when you put yourself in danger time and time again and I have to save your ass.”

  Wrenching my arm free, I spit back, “Well, consider yourself off the hook. I don’t need your help. Or your friendship.”

  I stalk out of the police station and throw open the door of my car. As I’m about to get in, I get the same creepy feeling I had at Independence Lake earlier today. I take a look around the parking lot, but I don’t see anyone lurking anywhere. Remembering the red car, I quickly scan the vehicles in the parking lot and on the street, but there are no red vehicles to be found. I get in my car, hoping I’m just imagining things.

  I have thirteen minutes to make the ten-minute drive to Blake’s house, and I can’t wait to get there. I can’t imagine what he has planned, but I’m sure it’s going to be something spectacular and romantic. I’m shaking with excitement the entire way to his place. His Porsche isn’t in the driveway, but a van from Mia’s Catering is. That’s odd.

  There’s a note on the door with my name written on it in beautiful calligraphy. I know Blake didn’t write this, because his handwriting is total crap. It reads, Look on the table in the entry hall for your first surprise of the evening. Smiling to myself, I enter the house and set my purse and my gift for Blake (a shirt, tie, and cufflinks) down on the table in the entry hall next to a black velvet box tied with a big red bow, sporting a tag saying, Open me.

  Before I can open the box, Mia comes out from the direction of the kitchen. “Oh, Miss Hart, I’m sorry we’re still finishing up. We had a bit of a spill in the kitchen, but Amber’s cleaning it up now. We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

  “No worries, Mia. Um…why exactly are you here?”

  She seems a bit flustered. “I can’t tell you exactly, because that would ruin the surprise. I can tell you that I’ve been trying to break into party planning, and Mr. Morgan was kind enough to be my first guinea pig and allow me to plan this lovely evening for you.” She gives me a shy smile. “I think you’re really going to enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will. Thank you so much.”

  “Mr. Morgan said to tell you to follow the directions on the notes and he’ll be here shortly.

  When Mia retreats back to the kitchen, I rip off the bow and open the box. My jaw drops. I’m staring at a stunning, thin gold cuff bracelet with a diamond-encrusted infinity symbol on it. I slip it onto my wrist and admire it. The man has good taste in jewelry. There’s a little note under the bracelet reading, Go upstairs to our bedroom to find another surprise.

  Excited, I hurry up the stairs and open the master bedroom door. The room is absolutely glowing with candlelight. I follow the path of rose petals across the floor and over to the bed. On top of the bed lay another box, this one much larger, but tied with the same red ribbon. I open it, finding a gorgeous red dress (a rather low-cut one, not that I’m surprised) with a tag that says, Wear me. I ditch my wrinkled work clothes and slip into the dress. Wow. It’s a stunner. It’s one of those dresses that somehow manages to hide your flaws and play up your attributes. The note beside the box says, The next surprise will stop your heart. I can’t imagine what else Blake could possibly have up his sleeve.

  I head for the stairs, but when I look down from the balcony at the entry hall, I stop short and suck in a gulp of air. My heart really does stop. Mia is lying on the floor, motionless. Bret is standing over her, holding a small marble statue of George Washington that’s usually on a table in the living room.

  Bret glances up at me, and I panic; the only thing I can think to do is to barricade myself in Blake’s bedroom. I scramble back into the bedroom, slam the door, and lock it. Frantically, I run to the corner of the room and position myself behind the heavy overstuffed chair, pushing it toward the door with all my might. Panting, I finally get it wedged against the door. I need to call for help. My eyes dart around the room, but my heart sinks when I realize there’s no landline in here and I’ve left my phone downstairs in my purse.

  “This is going even better than I expected.”

  At the sound of the voice, I nearly jump out of my skin. Wheeling around, I find Amber coming out of the bathroom, a shiny knife in her hand and an evil grin on her face.

  “What… What are you doing?” I cry, shrinking back from her, even though she’s across the room.

  “You read the note. Figure it out, Sherlock.”

  I shake my head in confusion. “The note?”

  “The last one was from me, not Blake.”

  I glance down at the note I’d left on the bed. The next surprise will stop your heart. As my eyes grow wide with recognition, Amber begins to chuckle.

  “Clever, isn’t it?”

  I’m struggling to get hold of myself, but I’m so bewildered by what’s happening, I can’t think straight. “You’re going to kill me? Why?”

  “It’s all part of the plan.”

  The sound of the doorknob rattling halts our conversation. “Amber, let me in!”

  “Just a minute, Bret. She blocked the door.” Amber gestures at me with her knife. “Move the chair away from the door.”

  Finally gaining enough control to be anything but frightened, I reply, “Hell no!” Amber is a little thing, who I could probably overpower if I didn’t get stabbed in the process. Bret, on the other hand, could wipe the floor with me. He needs to stay outside.

  Amber starts coming at me, and I back up against the dresser. My hands reach for the closest thing I can use to defend myself, but there’s nothing weapon-like. I pick up a framed photo of Blake and me and throw it at her, but my aim is total shit and it shatters against the wall behind her. She’s still coming at me, so I heave his dresser organizer full of change and a couple of pairs of sunglasses at her. The organizer hits her arm, but unfortunately not the one with the knife in it. I hurl several hardback books, some which make solid contact with her torso. They slow her down, but they don’t stop her. My last-ditch effort is to throw a couple of lit pillar candles at her, and one happens to hit her in the head, disorienting her enough that she falls to her knees and drops the knife.

  “Who’s clever now, bitch?” I taunt her.

  I hadn’t noticed the banging going on at the bedroom door until the chair I’d put there suddenly lurches across the floor and Bret bursts into the room. He’s on me in a second, and even though I struggle like my life depends on it, I’m powerless to get away. He drags me over to the bed and throws me down on it, sitting on top of me and pinning my arms above my head.

  “Stay still!” he roars at me, but I keep fighting.

  Suddenly he rears his head back and slams his head down onto my forehead. An immediate and engulfing pain fills my head, and all I can see is blurry bright lights. I can’t think at all, and my body goes slack.

  My ears are ringing, but I hear Bret’s muffled voice say, “Tie her to the bed.”

  My hands and feet are stretched in opposite directions, and something is wrapped around each of them and pulled tight. I feel Bret’s weigh
t lift off me. I can just barely open my eyes due to the pain in my head, and when I do, I see Amber’s face staring down at me, her lip curled into a sneer.

  “Nice try, but you weren’t quite clever enough.”

  “Why me?” I croak.

  She glares at me. “Where do I start?”

  “Let’s start by finishing her,” Bret says, handing her the knife.

  “Whoa,” I breathe, every syllable I utter shooting a new pain through my head. “I deserve to know why.”

  Amber snaps, “Okay, fine. Here’s why. First, you and Blake find the body immediately, which no one was supposed to do at least until the next day. We could have been long gone by then, but we didn’t count on the police shutting down the party and Bret getting questioned before he could slip away. If he had suddenly disappeared after that, the police would have gotten suspicious, so we had to stick around.”

  “That’s it?” I ask. My head is beginning to throb a little less, enough that I can talk a little. “Surely that’s not worth killing me over.”

  “Maybe not, but you just wouldn’t let it go. That bastard Blake manages to beat a murder charge, and then you two proceed to hassle everyone in the entire town about what they saw that night. I knew you were getting close when I saw you talking to that hooker at the lake.”

  My brain is foggy, but I manage to digest most of what she just said. “Wait. Weren’t you the one who put us on Bret’s trail in the first place? You came to me to tattle on him.”

  Bret takes a step toward Amber, towering over her menacingly. “What the hell? Why would you do that, Amber?”

  She waves a hand to dismiss him. “I was trying to throw them off. Make them focus in the wrong direction. Besides, if it came to it, I would deny I ever said anything. A wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband.”

  “A wife…husband?” I think Bret hit me in the head harder than I thought. Nothing is making a damn bit of sense.

  “We’re married,” she explains, smiling up at Bret.