Murder by Page One

by Olivia Matthews

  The voices were moving closer to my office.

  “This is a restricted area. You don’t have permission to come back here.” The flustered warning came from Viv.

  “I don’t give a flying fig about y’all’s restrictions. She doesn’t have permission to go around town badmouthing my boy!”

  Seated behind my desk Tuesday afternoon, I looked up from my computer. The exchange was loud. And hostile. I suspected the “she” in question was me, and that the angry speaker was Betty Rodgers-Hayes. I circled my desk and hurried to my doorway, hoping to diffuse the situation.

  Unfortunately, my timing was off. Betty almost bowled into me. I jumped back to prevent a pileup in my doorway. The older woman’s milky complexion was spotted red with temper. Her permed chestnut hair pinwheeled around her face. Her startled brown eyes first widened in surprise, then narrowed in accusation. I’d come face-to-face with an avenging warrior-parent.

  Viv was a step behind Betty with Adrian a half step behind her. My colleagues wore identical expressions of horror and dismay.

  Confronted with the trio, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Who’s watching circulation?”

  We couldn’t leave the circulation desk unattended. Suppose a reader needed assistance?

  “Danny has everything under control.” Viv’s reference to one of our more seasoned circulation members reassured me. “I’m so sorry, Marvey—”

  “What in tarnation do you think you’re playing at?” Betty’s growl interrupted the circulation supervisor.

  I offered Viv and Adrian a confident smile. “It’s all right. I’ll speak with Betty.”

  “You’re darn right you will.” Betty was panting like a waking volcano. I could almost see smoke billowing from her ears.

  “Are you sure?” Viv and Adrian spoke over each other. They exchanged dubious looks.

  “Yes, but thank you.” I smiled again, then gestured for Betty to precede me into my office before closing my door. Something told me this could get loud. “Betty, please take a seat. How can I help you?”

  This was as good a time as any to interview one of our suspects, but I wished I felt better prepared. Betty had caught me off guard. I’d have to play it by ear.

  Betty remained standing. She settled her silver purse more firmly on her left shoulder and glared at me across the narrow expanse of my desk. “You know darn good and well why I’m here. You’re getting ready to spread a rumor around town that my boy and I killed Fiona. That’s a darn lie, and you know it.”

  My back and neck stiffened as my tension grew. How could Betty have known that… The image of Delores rushing out of On A Roll blinked across my mind. “How long have you and Delores Polly known each other?”

  Betty gave a smug smile. “Since grade school.”

  “Can she read lips?”

  Her smile grew into a grin. “She sure can.”

  Since she remained standing, I did too. The muscles of my back and neck tightened. I braced my hands on my desk in front of me, buying a little time to gather my thoughts. Beneath my sweating palms, I felt the cool stack of papers I’d intended to review this afternoon. They’d have to wait. “Betty, there’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t plan to start any rumor about anyone. I’m just—”

  “The good Lord knows that my boy and I, we’d never do anything like that. Never.” Betty’s voice was on the rise again.

  In response to her attack on my investigation, I decided the best defense was a strong offense. “You and Bobby had a history with Fiona. You’re the jilted ex-wife. You were shouting to see Fiona during the signing. Why aren’t the deputies questioning you in connection with her murder?”

  Betty seemed to be vibrating with rage. Her heavily powdered cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “You’d better not be trying to point the finger at my boy for Fiona’s murder just to get your friend out of prison. If she’s guilty, then the good Lord knows that’s where she belongs.”

  “Jo’s innocent.” I was proud of my calm, even tone.

  Betty arched a dubious eyebrow. “Then y’all don’t have anything to worry about, do y’all?” Her voice was suddenly sweetness and light. How did Southerners manage that?

  I studied her smug expression. “What about you and Bobby? Do either of you have anything to worry about?”

  She gaped at me like a fish out of water. “We surely do not.”

  “How was your relationship with Fiona?”

  “That’s none of your darn business.” Betty crossed her arms. “I’m here to tell you to stop slandering my boy.”

  Would Viv consider Betty’s body language to be defensive? I would. The helicopter mom wasn’t going to say another word. Then why wasn’t she leaving? Was there something she wanted to tell me—or something she wanted to hear?

  I watched her closely. “People have told me you and Bobby had a lot of animosity toward Fiona.”

  Betty’s eyes narrowed to an angry glare. “What are folks saying about my boy?”

  “I’ve heard Fiona was in charge of the trust fund Buddy left for him. Is that true?” I searched her features closely for even a flicker of reaction.

  Her teeth snapped together with an audible click. “That doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  So it was true. “Did Bobby resent her control over his money?”

  “He wasn’t going to throw a barbecue for her, but that doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  Betty had a lot to say about Bobby’s innocence, but she didn’t say much about her own. “Did you resent her control over your son’s money? You’d already spread enough malicious gossip to turn the town against her.”

  Betty looked to her right and left before rallying. “Gossiping about the woman who tore my family apart doesn’t make me a killer.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t make you a killer, but your animosity toward her gives you a motive.” I wasn’t searching for a killer; I was looking for suspects. I wasn’t trying to solve Fiona’s murder, and maybe that made me a bad person. I’d leave that part to the deputies. I only wanted to clear Jo.

  “For the last time, my boy is no killer. And neither am I.” Betty spoke slowly as though she thought I was confused. “So don’t you lie on my boy. You hear me?” Final warning delivered, she spun on her heel and started toward my door.

  “Why did you attend Fiona’s book signing?”

  Betty stopped and faced me. Her eyes simmered with resentment. “Jo’s bookstore is a public place, and I have the right to go anywhere I want. Don’t I?”

  “Where were you before the signing?”

  “I was at home. Alone.” Betty clipped the words. “Doing chores. Not that it’s any of your darn business.”

  The deputies had told Spence they’d checked Betty’s alibi. Household chores weren’t much of an alibi. How had the deputies verified that? Had they given her home a white-glove test?

  “What about Bobby?” I searched her defiant features, looking for any shift in her expression. “Do you know where he was?”

  She hesitated. A shadow flickered over her features. “My son’s not a cold-blooded killer, and you’d darn well better not go around saying anything different.”

  A chill chased down my spine as I dropped onto the chair behind me. Betty’s voice was confident, but her words weren’t. I detected the ambiguity in her response. Was it possible Mama Bear had doubts about her Baby Bear’s innocence? What had Bobby said or done to put that uncertainty in Betty’s mind?

  Chapter 14

  “Betty attacked you?” Jo scooted forward on the overstuffed sky-blue sofa in my living room, where she sat with Spence later that evening. Her voice squeaked with anger.

  “Not physically; verbally.” I faced Jo and Spence from the matching armchair across the room. My mind was still spinning from the angry confrontation with Betty. Luckily, Jo and Spence had
been able to meet with me on short notice after dinner.

  Phoenix didn’t care that we had company. He’d snubbed us, choosing to remain alone in the foyer. He gave us his back as he stared out the French doors. Earlier, I’d tried to lure him away from that spot, but nothing I’d said or done had had any effect. In the end, I’d brought him his food and respected his solitude.

  He’d once again dragged all his belongings—his bed, food bowl, toys, and favorite blanket—to the living room and stacked them in front of the door. I’d stumbled over them when I’d gotten home earlier. Was his action a sign he was feeling ignored? He’d never done that in New York. After I’d put away his treasures, I’d again called the veterinarian Lonnie Norman, the pet shop owner, had recommended. As Lonnie had predicted, the doctor’s calendar was full—which was an encouraging testament to her popularity—but her receptionist had found an opening for Friday evening, three days from today. I think it had helped that Lonnie had called her on my behalf.

  “Betty’s just moved to the top of my suspects list.” Jo’s comment tugged me back to our meeting. “Regardless of whether her attack was physical or verbal, she obviously has a temper.”

  “Which probably was caused by her perceived threat to her child.” Spence gestured toward me. “Marvey said Betty seemed focused on protecting Bobby, not defending herself.”

  Jo switched her frown from me to Spence seated beside her. “Whose side are you on?”

  Spence’s expression softened. “I’m after the truth, and I know you’re innocent.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jo’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m still irritated that the deputies are determined to investigate me while ignoring Betty and Bobby, and not even looking into Zelda’s past with Fiona.”

  “Betty’s a much stronger suspect than you.” I rubbed the creases between my eyebrows. “That’s all we’re trying to convey to the deputies, that there are suspects with equally strong if not stronger motives than yours.”

  Spence propped his right ankle onto his left knee. “One meeting isn’t enough to go on, especially since she was so emotional.”

  “Spence is probably right.” Jo started to bite her nails. She caught my warning look and dropped her hand to her lap. “As much as I’d love to point the finger at someone else, I don’t want to implicate an innocent person just to clear my name.”

  “I checked with my contact at the coroner’s office.” Spence looked from Jo to me. “Fiona died from blunt force trauma to her head.”

  Curiosity had me on the edge of my seat. “Who’s your contact in the coroner’s office?”

  “Journalists must protect our sources.” He gave me a wry look before continuing. “Fiona was probably pushed backward. Her head hit a corner of the table as she fell. She died almost instantly.”

  “That explains why no one heard her scream.” I experienced a wave of grief almost as strong as the one that had hit me the afternoon we’d discovered Fiona’s lifeless body.

  Spence nodded somberly. “Based on the angle of the wounds, my contact believes Fiona was stabbed as she lay on the ground. Her body sustained five wounds from a curved, eight-inch blade.”

  “A curved blade?” There was dread in Jo’s voice. “The killer must’ve used one of our box cutters. There were two in the storage room. One’s missing.”

  Spence and I exchanged a concerned look. That the murder weapon belonged to Jo—or rather, to her store—was another factor against her. First, Jo and Fiona had argued. Second, it was Jo’s store. Third, it was Jo’s knife. Three strikes.

  Ice collected in the pit of my stomach. “If the killer pushed Fiona, doesn’t that make it seem as though there had been at least a brief struggle?”

  “Perhaps.” Spence nodded. “My source agrees this was a crime of passion. The fact the killer kept stabbing Fiona—five times—even after she was on the ground makes it seem like the murder was done in a rage. It wasn’t premeditated. The killer didn’t bring a weapon. They used one that was at the scene.”

  “I wonder if the killer was injured.” A memory from the book signing surfaced. “Bobby had several scratches on the back of his right hand Saturday. I noticed them when he was showing Jo his snake tattoo.”

  The news seemed to revive Jo. She shared a look between Spence and me. “Maybe he got those scratches in a struggle with Fiona.”

  Spence was quiet for a moment, contemplating Jo’s response. “Bobby told me that before the signing, he was home alone, eating lunch and watching a movie. He has no opinion on who killed Fiona, but it wasn’t him or his mama.”

  “How did the deputies verify his alibi?” My frustration was showing. “Did they ask him twenty questions about the movie?”

  Jo sniffed her disdain. “I’d like an answer to that too.”

  I leaned back against my armchair. “Betty wouldn’t tell me why she’d attended Fiona’s book signing. Adrian thinks it was to confront Fiona about her book.”

  “Now that right there was payback for all the ugly lies Betty spread about Fiona around town. I’m sure of it.” Jo crossed her right leg over her left knee and tapped her foot against the air in a silent off-rhythm beat.

  Spence balanced his left elbow on the sofa’s arm. “Why would Betty risk the exposure of killing her in a public place?”

  “Your coroner friend called it a crime of passion. Maybe things got out of hand.” Jo crossed her arms and legs. “But if you ask me, Betty’s ugly gossip should’ve landed her on the deputies’ radar to start with.”

  “For now, let’s keep her on our list of people of interest.” I remembered the woman’s hesitation as I asked about Bobby’s relationship with Fiona. And the scratches on the back of Bobby’s hand. “But if Betty isn’t the killer, could she be covering for one?”

  “I’m so sorry, Phoenix.” After Jo and Spence left Tuesday night, I gathered the cat into my arms and sat on the floor beside the French doors. He didn’t resist as he had when I’d first returned home. Instead, his soft, warm body curled into me. Progress. “I know you don’t like going to the vet. I don’t like going to the doctor, either, but I need to know what’s wrong. You’re not yourself.”

  I pushed myself to my legs and carried Phoenix upstairs to my study, also known as the spare bedroom, at the end of the second-floor hallway. “You’ll be happy to know this vet comes highly recommended by Lonnie. I hope you like her.”

  I hope I like her too.

  “For now, come help me make a book pendant for Jo. I think that’ll cheer her up. Don’t you?”

  Phoenix willingly joined me in my study, but he withheld his opinion on our Pendant Project. The room was comfortably warm. It smelled of vanilla, courtesy of the plug-in air freshener to the left of the threshold. The feel of the warm wood flooring gave way to the textured sensation of the cream-and-gold Berber area rug in the center of the room.

  I’d hung several of my wood-framed book cover sketches on the walls. They shared space with my bookcases. I sat on my desk chair and settled Phoenix onto my lap. Powering my laptop, I launched the internet browser and started searching for book cover images. The spark of curiosity I sensed from Phoenix healed my heart.

  “Do any of these covers appeal to you?” I paused for Phoenix’s response. Nothing. Not a meow or a purr; not even a yawn. But I’d felt his brief interest, and he seemed relaxed as he remained on my lap. I continued our one-sided conversation. “Jo has a lot of favorite books, which weirdly enough makes it harder for me to pick a cover image for the pendant.” I glanced at the top of Phoenix’s head. “There are just too many choices.”

  I did a search for How the García Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez. Jo loved this novel. There were several beautiful versions of the cover, some illustrations, others photographs. A couple were text treatments.

  I opened another web tab and asked for images of The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, another b
ook that I recalled had pride of place on Jo’s “keepers” bookshelf. This search also resulted in myriad images—illustrations, photos, and text treatments. But one of the illustrations was a vivid drawing of three women, looking downward. The image used striking colors to convey movement and emotion. The picture drew me in and made me sigh with pleasure.

  “We have a winner.” I sent the file to the printer.

  As the machine clicked and whirred, I stroked Phoenix from the spot just above his nose to the top of his head. He closed his eyes and kneaded my thigh. I smiled, part pleasure and part relief. Maybe he was getting back to his old self.

  Still petting Phoenix with my left hand, I stretched to pluck the printout from the machine with my right. I studied it for a while, then showed it to Phoenix. “I can feel the emotion. Can you?”

  My cell phone vibrated in the front right pocket of my turquoise denim shorts. I pulled the device free and checked the identification screen. The caller was my mother, Ciara Bennett-Harris. I’d just spoken with my parents Saturday. My smile faded as I realized why my mother was calling.

  Oh, boy.

  I took a deep breath and answered the phone. “Hi, Mo—”

  “Have they caught the killer yet?” My mother’s sharp question interrupted my greeting as I answered her call.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. This isn’t like Law & Order. Murder isn’t solved within the format of a sixty-minute television show.”

  “There’s no need to get cheeky.” My father’s admonishment lacked heat as it traveled across the phone line. The echo in the background confirmed my parents were using their speaker phone feature. “Besides, it’s been more than sixty minutes. You called to tell us about the murder Saturday. That was three days ago.”

  A jazz instrumental played faintly in the background, providing a soundtrack to our conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I was—”

  “We’re your parents.” My mother bowled over my words again. “We have the right to worry.”

  “Of course, Mom. I understand.” And I loved them for it, even as I wished they weren’t so concerned.