Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set

by Lisa B. Thomas

  Subtle, Deena.

  It was her turn. She sat down as Max Dekker shuffled his way into the chair on the other side of the Plexiglas window.

  He gave her what she assumed to be a grateful smile. Even in an orange jumpsuit, the man looked distinguished.

  She waited for him to pick up the phone before putting the receiver to her ear.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  She nodded, realizing her jaw was clenched tight.

  “You know, it’s kind of interesting in here. I’m getting lots of background research for my next book.” He waited for her to respond.

  Nothing.

  “The food isn’t too bad if you like scrambled eggs made out of cardboard.” Another pause. “Do you realize there are actually people living in the civilized world who have no familiarity with deodorant? Who would have guessed?”

  “I thought you were retired,” Deena said flatly.

  “A writer’s gotta write, ya know. Can’t sit around with my boots up jest sewin’ cott’n and checkin’ the trot lines.”

  Deena’s face kept its steady composure, but she was a little surprised. It was the first time she’d heard Max break out of his sophisticated New York accent and get back to his Southern roots.

  “Well, enough chitchat,” he said. “I suppose you are wondering why I asked to see you.”

  She blinked her eyes, trying to keep her vow to let him do the talking.

  “I assume you know the circumstances behind my arrest. According to my attorney, they may be adding on an attempted murder charge as well.”

  He paused, but she refused to gift him a reaction.

  “None of it is true. I didn’t do it. I never killed my wife or tried to kill you. Now, I realize that you probably expected me to say that, and I’ve been trying to come up with a way to convince you—and everyone else—that I’m telling the truth. The problem is that I haven’t been able to.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. That was unexpected. “What do you want from me Mr. Dekker?”

  “I want your help. I’ve written enough mysteries to know that I need someone from the area who knows the people here to help prove my case.”

  “What about your lawyer? He’s from Maycroft.”

  “He’s temporary. My New York attorney only does contracts, so he recommended a hotshot criminal defense lawyer from Houston. He’s arriving tomorrow. Even he will need someone who knows the people here to help him. From what I’ve seen and heard, you’re a pretty sharp investigator—no pun intended.”

  She shook her head. “Why should I help you? How do you know I don’t think you’re guilty?”

  Max rubbed the side of his face slowly with his hand.

  Was that the hand of a killer? The same hand that had crafted all those wonderful stories?

  “Last week when we first met, you challenged me. I recognized right away that you had gumption. You want to know the truth behind this case as much as I do. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She blinked and looked away. He may not be innocent, but he was definitely perceptive. She looked back at him. “If not you, then who?”

  “That’s what we need to find out. Someone is framing me. Someone put those oily handkerchiefs in my briefcase. Someone took that box of clothes to the thrift store. Someone killed my wife and tried to kill you. We need to find out who it was.”

  The guard standing behind Max looked at his watch and gave her the wrap-it-up sign by twirling his fingers. She looked back at Max whose attention was fixed on something behind her. She turned just as Max’s ex-wife, Barbara Conroy, raced up and grabbed the receiver out of Deena’s hand.

  She shouted into the phone. “You lying snake! How could you change your will and leave me out of it. Charity? You’re leaving it all to some charity? I haven’t hung around all these years to wind up alone and penniless.” She shot an angry look at Deena before turning back to Max. “And, who in the blazes is Lizzie Bogmire?”

  AFTER THE OFFICERS restrained Barbara Conroy and hauled her away, there was nothing more for Deena to do except go home and sort out what had happened. She sat on her patio watching Hurley sniff and chase the fall leaves that danced around the grass, forming a colorful blanket on the rippling water of the pool. She hugged her knees and pulled the sweater tighter around her.

  Max Dekker was telling the truth, she was sure of it. As for his relationship with Barbara Conroy, she was stumped. If he had wanted to be with his ex-wife, why didn’t he just file for divorce from Alexis? Or better yet, why did he re-marry her? One thing she knew was that Max Dekker was more fickle than a love-struck teenager.

  Barbara showed her true colors when she asked those questions about Max’s will. Seemed like she was in it more for the money than anything else. If it turned out that Max truly loved her, he must be devastated right now, especially if he killed Alexis to be with her.

  No, that didn’t happen. She rested her chin on her knees. Could it have been the other way around? Could Barbara have wanted to get rid of Alexis to get back with Max? Sounds reasonable. Maybe Barbara dropped the box of clothes off at the back of the thrift shop. That would make sense. Out with the old, in with the new.

  But was she in town when Alexis was murdered? Max’s attorney would likely offer her up as a suspect and force Detective Guttman to check her alibi. Even if she had an alibi, her behavior might lead to reasonable doubt.

  So if Barbara killed Alexis, was she the person who cut Deena’s brake line? Greed may have made her want Alexis dead so she could get her hands on Max’s money, but Deena wasn’t worth anything to her dead.

  The only other motives she could come up with were jealousy and self-protection. Deena hadn’t done anything to make the woman jealous except show up at the memorial. Could Barbara have seen Deena as a threat? Maybe Deena was getting too close to the truth. Maybe Barbara was the person following her in Max’s rental car.

  If Deena wasn’t in deep enough already, she was about six feet under now. She had witnessed Barbara’s outburst at the jail, so Guttman would need to interview her. There would be a deposition. Obviously, she should let Ian know what was going on.

  Not yet though. She knew that as her lawyer, he would advise her to stay away from Max Dekker and the entire case. That would be wise of her to do. But sometimes doing the dumb thing gets the best results. She wanted to talk to Max and ask him a few more questions. He would be out on bond tomorrow. Maybe she would go see him.

  She needed to work out one last detail. It was the last thing Barbara said. She had asked Max about Lizzie Bogmire. How on earth would Max Dekker have anything to do with Betty’s sister?

  Chapter 21

  Deena walked up to the front door of the Dekker house. There were several cars parked out front, none of which were a white Ford sedan. Max’s rental car was likely still at the police impound. She knocked and waited.

  Last night she had told Gary everything that happened with the exception of her plans to talk to Max one last time. Not telling him wasn’t a lie, but it was still a deception. She knew Max’s attorneys would be present, so she would be safe. Once she had her questions answered, she would go see Ian and tell him everything she knew—just like she’d promised Gary.

  A man wearing a blue suit and thick horned-rimmed glasses opened the door. Surely, this wasn’t the high-priced defense attorney from Houston. It had been her experience that the better looking an attorney was, the more successful he or she tended to be. Juries liked attractive lawyers.

  “You must be Mrs. Sharpe,” the man said. “Come in.”

  She followed him back to the den. It looked exactly as she would expect to see in a writer’s house. One entire wall was covered in bookshelves and filled to the brim with hardbacks and paperbacks and knick-knacks of every sort. The books were not arranged in any particular order from what she could see, unlike the ones at Betty’s house, but instead were shoved into every nook and cranny like treasures among treasures.

  Max was sitting on the sofa with a
notepad in his lap. She could see an ankle monitor around his leg where his pant leg was hiked up. Obviously, he was under strict surveillance, as the rich often are. Unlike regular folks, the rich have the means and resources to disappear.

  He stood and greeted her. “Mrs. Sharpe. Glad you decided to come by. This is David Callahan, my attorney, and this is...”

  The man with glasses introduced himself and the pretty paralegal sitting at the kitchen table typing away on a laptop.

  “Nice to meet you all,” Deena said.

  Callahan walked over and gave her a two-handed shake, covering the top of her hand with his. It was the kind of warm handshake you give when greeting an old friend or a distant relative. “I’m delighted to meet you. I think you are going to be a real key to this case and to ensuring that justice is served.” His deep blue eyes locked on to hers.

  She took a seat across from the sofa.

  David Callahan looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine. He was probably middle-aged, but had a boyish face and a dimpled chin. His deep tan was likely a spray-on job, but looked as natural as if he’d spent all his time on the beach. Even his dark hair had that messy but perfectly styled look you see on movie stars. Only thing missing was the perpetual five o’clock shadow.

  “I understand you were at the jail talking to Mr. Dekker when Ms. Conroy arrived,” Callahan said.

  If sound had a texture, Callahan’s voice would be velvet. She wanted to hear more.

  When Deena didn’t respond, he continued. “We feel like Mrs. Conroy could be responsible for the death of Alexis Dekker and the attempt on your life as well.”

  Those words brought her back from dreamland. She probably needed a lawyer here. She was way out of her league with this guy. Good-looking or not, he was still an attorney and had his own agenda.

  “I—I really didn’t come here to answer your questions, Mr. Callahan. I came here to get answers of my own.”

  “Call me David, please,” he said as glances shot around the room.

  Max, however, looked directly at her. “I understand,” he said. “Ask me anything you want. I’m an open book.”

  “Ha! Good one,” ol’ blue eyes said. “Make a note of that. We’ll use it at trial.”

  Max shot an annoyed look at his attorney and then re-focused on Deena.

  “I’d rather speak to you in private, if possible.” She hadn’t planned to say that, but the audience gathered had made her uncomfortable.

  “You’ve heard of attorney-client privilege, I’m sure,” Callahan said. “You are free to speak here.”

  “That would apply if you were my attorney, Mr. Callahan, but you’re not.” She turned back to Max. “It’s about Lizzie Bogmire.”

  Max’s eyebrows shot up. He pushed back the gray hair at his temple. “Gentlemen—and lady—will you excuse us for a few minutes.” He stood and motioned for Deena to follow him.

  They stepped out onto the back patio with a row of Adirondack chairs looking out into the pasture. After they sat, Max began talking slowly, as if choosing each word with perfect care. “I’ve always been a story-teller, you know, ever since I was a child. It’s both my passion and my nemesis. I’m going to tell you something I’m not proud of. Something I’ve only ever told one person in my life, and now she’s dead.”

  Deena’s body stiffened and her eyes grew large.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to you. It just seems like ‘the jig is up,’ as they say, and it’s time to come clean. Before long everyone will know the story, and everyone will know that Max Dekker is a liar and a thief.”

  Deena’s throat felt like a withered-up cactus in the dry Texas heat. She tried to swallow and then managed to croak out a question. “What does this have to do with Lizzie Bogmire?”

  He blinked his eyes and gave her a crooked smile, resting his head in the chair as though he were taking a trip a thousand miles away. “You see, back when I was young and reckless, I thought I knew everything—especially about writing. After all, I was a young professor on the tenure track at the university teaching creative writing. If my alma mater thought I knew what I was talking about, then I must. Right?

  “Well, no one had told that to the New York publishing houses. I couldn’t even get an agent, much less a book deal. I could have wallpapered my little house in Austin with all the rejection letters I had received. Depressing. I was the consummate tortured artist. This went on for several years. My hopes and dreams seemed to be crashing down all around me.

  “Then I met Alexis. She was one of the agents to whom I had sent my manuscript. She said it wasn’t very good but thought it had potential. She asked if I had anything else, perhaps something better. I didn’t. However, I had just read a short story by one of my college students. It was powerful. It was impressive. It was in my file cabinet drawer.”

  Deena leaned in a little closer. Was this story going where she thought it was going?

  “If you’re thinking I sent a copy of it off to Alexis, you’d be right. She loved it. She encouraged me to come to New York to work with an editor friend of hers. I took off a semester from the university and finished the novel. We changed the title to Crimson Waters. A publishing house picked it up, and it became a bestseller. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “And Lizzie Bogmire?”

  “She was very young and a little naive. She was the gal who wrote the short story. I gave her a B.”

  “So when the novel came out, did you ever hear from her? Did she find out what you did?”

  “Back in those days, manuscripts were typed. On typewriters.”

  “I remember.”

  “Unless you typed with carbon paper, that one copy was all you had. I had the only copy of the story. Some six years after the release, she called me up. Threatened to sue me. I told her she had no proof. I was such a jerk back then. So full of myself. I told her to give me her address, and I’d send her something.” He shook his head. “You know what I did? I sent her a signed copy of the book.”

  “Tacky. Really tacky.”

  “That was the last time I heard from Lizzie Bogmire, but believe me, it wasn’t the last time I thought about her. The older I get, the more guilt I have.”

  “What about all of your other books? Did you write those?”

  “Yes, indeed. Turns out, I was a pretty good storyteller after all. Just needed a little spit and polish from some of New York’s finest editors. Just like Alexis thought.”

  Deena stared at a pair of squirrels jumping from branch to branch, and thought about how simple life could be for earth’s non-human inhabitants. “You said I was the second person you told this story to. I assume Alexis was the first.”

  “Yes, and that was the beginning of my undoing. As my agent, the person who started my meteoric rise to fame in the book world, I was indebted to her. Unfortunately, I confused gratitude with love. We married six weeks to the day my book hit the bestseller list. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she had wavy blonde hair and mile-long legs that would keep most men awake at night.” His melancholy smile matched his tone.

  “But once the passion wore off, there wasn’t much left. Then I met Barbara. She was a paralegal at my lawyer’s office. She was no beauty queen. But I could tell she came from good stock. Alexis never wanted children. She thought they would interfere with her social life. I thought Barbara and I could settle down and raise a family.

  “When I told Alexis I was leaving her, she pleaded with me to stay. Then she threatened to take all my earnings. Luckily, I had enough money piled up to buy her off. For a while. When the money dried up, she started looking for other ways to squeeze this old lemon. Apparently, she had kept a lot of my old papers. She ran across the original manuscript of the short story with Lizzie Bogmire’s name on it. I ended up telling her the whole, ugly truth.

  “When you’re a writer, being accused of plagiarism is worse than being accused of adultery, lechery, and ritual serial killings combined. People wou
ld forgive you for that. Not so with plagiarism. So when Alexis threatened to expose me if I didn’t take her back, I felt I had no choice. She didn’t even care if I kept Barbara on the side as long as we were discreet, and she got to keep up the pretense of being married to a neurotic, successful novelist. That was fourteen years ago.”

  “So you and Barbara never had kids?”

  “Nope. Turns out, I’m a failure in that department. Just as well, now that I know she was only after the money, too. I sure know how to pick ’em.” He scratched his head.

  Deena sat on the side of her chair facing Max. “Obviously I don’t know her like you do, but she doesn’t strike me as a person capable of murder.”

  “That’s what’s so fascinating. Murderers don’t all look like Cro-Magnons with big beards and jagged teeth. They look like you and me. But then, something happens that causes them to snap—or become desperate. Remember? I talked about this in class. Greed, revenge, lust, anger. It doesn’t take much for some people to make a sharp turn to the dark side.”

  “You’re right. I should know that by now. But to think someone you know has committed homicide...” She shivered. “How do you think she found out about your will?”

  “She must have gotten my soon-to-be-ex-lawyer—her former boss—to tell her about it. Who knows, maybe she was having an affair with him on the side, too. Anyway, I was planning to leave my money to a charity that helps young writers in Austin and I was planning to set up a scholarship in Lizzie’s name at the university. I’m such a coward, I couldn’t see my way clear to do anything for Ms. Bogmire while I was still standing upright. I had hoped that by helping her when I was gone, I might atone for some of my sins and keep things a little cooler in the hereafter.”

  Deena wasn’t sure how to respond. “Wow.” Not very elegant, but the best she could come up with. What a tale. “So, whatever happened with Lizzie Bogmire?”

  “Never heard from her again. Not during the daytime, anyway. Occasionally, she still haunts me in my sleep.”