An Almost Purr-Fect Murder

by Denise Dietz

  “Does he? Maxwell joined my practice six months ago. I have records that date back to your mother’s death, when you actually did go a little crazy.”

  A little crazy? I had sunk into a deep depression, surely the reason why Jim had initiated his nefarious scheme.

  “We’ll see,” I said. Not the greatest exit line. In fact, I sounded bratty, and Dr. Tampoline’s wheezy laugh followed me through the doorway.

  Charlene had used a conference room exit to “go potty down the hall.” But first she’d captured Dr. Tampoline’s words on the merry-widow-waltz tape. And while it wasn’t a full-boogie confession, it could be deemed a tad incriminating, especially when Sergeant Leonard heard Doc’s remarks about the knife, which, in my opinion, was a smoking gun.

  Our next stop was Leonard’s steam-cleaned carpet.

  ***

  I wasn’t hungry but my sister had cooked up a sumptuous dinner. Elvis lay at my feet, gulping down the tidbits I surreptitiously fed him.

  “Would you do the dishes?” Charlene stood, stretched and yawned. Then she put on her coat and a pair of stretchy black leather gloves. “I really must go home, check my phone messages, and feed Beau.”

  “Beau?”

  “My cat.”

  “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

  “I adopted Beau last month. God, I’m tired.”

  “Me, too. I can’t thank you enough for all your help, Charlene.”

  “That’s what sisters are for, Merrie.”

  “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. If Dr. Tampoline was diligently dumping Cherry’s body, he couldn’t have switched my bedroom pictures. Unless he stopped here on the way. I suppose that’s possible – damn! My new bracelet, my Bloomies stuff. I wanted to look nice in my casket and have Jim foot the bill. If I’m not due to die, I’d better make some returns.”

  “Why not keep everything? You never know when you’ll need it.”

  That sounded a tad cryptic, but before I could respond the doorbell rang.

  A florist’s truck squatted at my curb and the kid from yesterday handed me red roses. Their moist buds were illuminated by my porch light. I reached for my purse, which I had left on the vestibule table. It wasn’t there.

  “I’ll tip him,” Charlene said.

  “I’m sure my purse was on that table,” I said, thrusting the roses beneath my armpits, extracting the card and reading the words out loud. “MERRIE Christmas. Love always, Jim.” I felt my throat constrict, just before I ran down the path toward the delivery truck. “Wait! Stop! Who ordered these flowers?”

  The kid turned around. “Whoever signed the card, ma’am.”

  “It’s not signed, it’s printed. When were the roses ordered? Yesterday?”

  “No way. We guarantee local delivery within three hours.”

  “But they could have been ordered yesterday, scheduled for delivery tonight,” I said, thinking out loud. “Who placed the order?” I asked somewhat desperately, knowing the delivery kid wouldn’t have a clue.

  “I don’t have a clue, ma’am.”

  I raced back up the path and brushed past Charlene. Still anchoring the roses under my armpit, I called the number printed at the top of the card and, somewhat hysterically, persuaded the manager to check the receipt.

  “The order was phoned in an hour ago,” he said.

  “Did you take the order? Which credit card did he use?”

  “I didn’t take the order. American Express.”

  “Would you read me the card’s numbers?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.”

  “What if I gave you the numbers? You could verify…” I swallowed the rest of my words. My purse was missing, which meant my credit card was missing.

  Then I simply dropped the receiver as the family room spun round and round, not unlike Cherry’s ballerinas. Maybe I really was insane.

  I heard music. Christmas music. Judy Garland.

  Staring at Charlene, I said, “Turn off the music.”

  She said, “What music?”

  The long-stemmed roses dangled down my side, a third thorny arm, and I couldn’t breathe. Stumbling toward the front door, I reached for the knob. I needed fresh air. My head thumped and soon it would explode.

  “Merrie, stop it!” Charlene blocked the exit. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Going crazy,” I said. “The police have Jim’s tape recorder, but I hear music. Jim’s dead, but he switched the pictures and called the florist and – oh, God, headache. Migraine. Need sedative. Need Dr. Tampoline. No, Dr. Gordon.”

  “You don’t need a doctor, sweetie. I have tranquilizers. They’ll help you sleep and you’ll feel much better tomorrow.” Charlene reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a container filled with pills.

  “My head hurts. Oh, God, I want peace.”

  “Yes. Peace. Take the tranquilizers, Merrie.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, three, ten, all of them, however many bring you peace.”

  “I want to give you a present, Charlene. You’ve been so great. How about my new emerald bracelet? You said you loved green stones.”

  Suddenly the world stopped spinning as a thought, a coherent thought, clicked into place. At the same time, Judy stopped singing.

  Charlene pressed the pill container against my palm. “Why don’t you wash these down with our leftover dinner wine? I’ve really got to get going, sweetie.”

  “Yes, I know. To feed Beau. Your cat. Your white Persian cat. Does he have a collar, Charlene? A jeweled collar that looks like my emerald bracelet?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve met your cat, sweetie. He was in Cherry’s apartment. For all intents and purposes, Dr. Tampoline’s apartment, listed in the phone directory under Cherry’s fictitious name because Dr. Tampoline did his illegal business transactions there. But Dr. Tampoline said he loaned the apartment to Jim for assignations. I’ll bet my emerald bracelet the yellow roses were for you. Cherry arrived during her lunch break, while you were shopping for groceries, and Jim couldn’t resist her charms. Dr. Tampoline found them and killed them. You came back moments before I got there. When I knocked, you hid inside the front-hall closet. While I visited Cherry’s bedroom, you snatched up the pet stocking, grabbed your cat, and fled. I missed a clue, thanks to my damn migraine. No, two clues. I naturally assumed that anyone who collects teddy bears would turn the TV to Sesame Street, but that’s always been your thing, your favorite show.”

  She shrugged. “And clue number two?”

  “If the cat was Cherry’s, it would have clawed the tassels on her couch cushions, clawed her dangling potpourri sachets. I don’t know why you had your cat with you, Charlene, but my educated guess is that you’d scheduled an appointment for one of those disgustingly cute pet-with-Santa photos.” I glanced at my wall, at the framed photo of Elvis perched on Santa’s lap.

  From the heating ducts, I heard Barbra Streisand singing Gounod’s “Ave Maria.”

  “Oh my God! You’ve got a tape recorder, too!” I walked into the family room and hung up the phone. “You’re the one who switched my pictures and hid my stuff. You and Jim planned it together. The deal was suicide, not insanity. That way Jim could inherit my trust fund, pay off his debts, and squire you around the world on his yacht. Obviously, you didn’t know he was ‘squiring’ another blonde.”

  Briefly, I wondered why Charlene had concocted her latest plan, more roses, to drive me nuts. But the answer was obvious. She knew I had no will. With Jim dead, and me dead, she would inherit my trust fund. By default. My fault — no will. Despite my pounding headache, I laughed.

  “What’s so damn funny, Merrie?”

  “Suddenly everyone’s name starts with a ‘C’ and everyone’s big-breasted. The bra I found was yours, but Cherry called my house. You’d never do that because I’d recognize your voice. Did it ever occur to you that once Jim got his hands on my trust fund, he’d leave you flat?”
>
  Her nostrils flared. “Of course it did. But he knew I’d kill—” She stopped short.

  “Who really killed Jim, Charlene? Did you find out about Cherry and finish what the good doctor started? Did you put a pillow over Jim’s face? Or one of Cherry’s teddy bears? Or even your precious cat? I suppose the cops could check the bears for DNA.”

  I held up my hand like a school crossing guard, dimly realizing I’d made the identical gesture inside Dr. Tampoline’s office, after he had pronounced my death sentence, the bastard. “Never mind,” I said. “Don’t tell me. Go home and feed your cat. I’ll be drafting a will, leaving everything to Elvis. Then I’ll draft codicils, leaving everything to subsequent Yorkshire Terriers. And don’t even think about killing them off, you conniving witch, because then my trust fund would revert to the SPCA.” I envisioned Dr. Gordon, who preferred a 34-B bra. “Meanwhile, I might play the very merry widow.”

  I watched my sister stomp outside, inhale the frosty night air, start her car, drive away. Then I thrust the roses into an empty milk carton. My head still throbbed, so I called Dr. Maxwell Gordon’s service. He got back to me immediately.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said.

  “Five minutes? Good grief, Dr. Gordon, where are you calling from?”

  “My cell phone. I was on my way to your house. And it’s Max.”

  Alvin and cohorts were trilling naughty and nice from the Christmas tree when I met Max at the front door. It had begun to snow again, thick heavy flakes, and I had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to leave tonight.

  “The lab called with your test results,” he said. “But your phone was busy and I didn’t want to wait until next week.”

  The phone hadn’t been busy. The phone had been dangling. Or as Doc would say, diddling. I swallowed a giggle. Delayed reaction.

  Suddenly, Max’s words sank in. “Next week?” I echoed. “What about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas. In fact, the office will be closed until December twenty-seventh, with emergency calls routed to Dr. Tampoline.”

  I didn’t bother to tell him that by now Dr. Tampoline was incarcerated. Instead, I nestled against his stalwart chest and said, “Did the lab find out what’s causing my headaches?”

  “Yes,” Max said. “You’re allergic to roses.”

  #

  About the Author

  When Denise Dietz was in the third grade, she wrote her first story, THE PENCIL WHO GREW UP TO BE A STUB. Years later, after Denise had enjoyed a short-lived singing career and acting career, she wrote her first culinary mystery, THROW DARTS AT A CHEESECAKE, where diet club members are getting killed off at goal weight and eating as if their very lives depended on it. The next book in the series, BEAT UP A COOKIE, revolves around a group of M*A*S*H* addicts and is dedicated to Alan Alda. Books three and four are CHAIN A LAMB CHOP TO THE BED and STRANGLE A LOAF OF ITALIAN BREAD (nominated for a Lefty Award for funniest mystery). The mysteries star diet club leader Ellie Bernstein and homicide detective Peter Miller.

  Denise hit the bestseller list with FOOTPRINTS IN THE BUTTER - co-starring Hitchcock the Dog. She followed that success with her horror-mystery novel, FIFTY CENTS FOR YOUR SOUL, and her "reluctant witch mystery," EYE OF NEWT.

  Cloning herself into historical romance author Mary Ellen Dennis, Denise wrote THE LANDLORD'S BLACK EYED DAUGHTER, THE GREATEST LOVE ON EARTH, DREAM ANGEL: a Circus Novella, STARS OF FIRE, and HEAVEN'S THUNDER: a Colorado Saga.

  Denise is married to author and editor Gordon Aalborg (a.k.a. Victoria Gordon), and is owned by a chocolate Labrador retriever named Magic.

  Denise likes to hear from readers. You can contact her via her website: http://www.denisedietz.com