The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  “Well, it never seemed like the right time. I was going to tell you and then Leon died.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I thought telling you I was getting married after your husband died was in very poor taste.” She looked at me as if surely any imbecile should know that. “Then, that man was murdered and the police thought you did it, and I couldn’t tell you then.”

  The waiter brought me a new drink and I thanked him, ignored the look my mother gave me, and took a sip.

  “Then that nice boy, Dawson, was accused of killing that girl and you were all involved in helping him. I didn’t think that was the right time.” She fluttered her hands again. “Before I knew it, the wedding was nearly here.”

  “Does Jenna know?”

  “No. She and Tony are on a cruise. I was going to wait until she came back so I could tell you both together, but Harold thought I better tell you so you would have time to shop for an outfit.”

  I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to put everything in perspective. My mom was in her late fifties. She was still active and vibrant and had many good years in front of her. She deserved to be happy, and if Harold made her happy, more power to her. I got up and walked around the table and gave my mom a hug. “Congratulations, Mom.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  I sat down and called the waiter over. “Could you please get my mom a glass of champagne. We’re celebrating. My mom is getting married.”

  He looked at my mom, who beamed. He hurried away and returned with a small bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses. He placed them on our table. “Compliments of the house.” He filled our glasses.

  We held up our glasses. “Mom, I’m very happy for you and I wish you and Harold many years of happiness and love.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She took a sip. “I’m sure we’ll be very happy together but I’m not marrying Harold because I love him.” She took another sip of her champagne. “It’s physical. I’m marrying him for the sex.”

  I tried to wrap my head around the idea of my mom as a nymphomaniac, but try as I might, I just couldn’t. I left the waiter a large tip, especially after he had to clean up our table the second time. At least when I spewed out the champagne, it hadn’t stained as badly as the mimosa.

  My mom made a couple of comments about my state of inebriation and questioned my ability to drive. I finally convinced her I wasn’t intoxicated by pointing out most of my drinks were splattered down the front of my sweater and across the table. She threatened to take a taxi home, and I almost let her. I wasn’t nearly intoxicated enough to fight with her.

  Eventually, her majesty deigned to permit me to drive her home, but not without showering down guilt on my head. “If you get in an accident and kill me, just know it’ll be all your fault. If you live, you’ll have my death on your conscience.”

  I blamed the toll of the last twenty-four hours and my lack of sleep for eliminating my filter. I backed out of the parking lot. “I can live with that.”

  Chapter 8

  My fingers itched to call my sister. How dare she enjoy a weeklong Caribbean cruise while I was left here to deal with our grandmother’s potential arrest and our mother’s impending marriage to Harold Somebody-or-Other. Someday I’d ask my mom what her intended’s last name was, but it was not this day. I paced across my apartment. The image of my sister lying on a white sandy beach holding a fruity drink with an umbrella made me angry. The fact it wasn’t her fault and I was being totally unreasonable just made me angrier.

  The doorbell rang and the poodles ran downstairs to bark and let the doorbell ringer know that fierce toy poodles lived inside.

  Even before I got downstairs, I knew by the scratches on the glass and the whimpering rather than barking, my visitor was someone well-known to the pack. I was pleasantly surprised to see Frank’s face smiling at me through the glass door.

  I opened the door. “You may not want to come inside. It’s been a crazy day and I haven’t had sleep.”

  Frank stepped inside. “I’ll take my chances.” He looked at me. “You look like you could use a hug.” He opened his arms.

  I took one step forward and melted into him. It felt good to lay my head on his chest and feel his strong arms wrap around me. I stood there, absorbing the warmth and strength of his body, dissolving my tension and stress. It had been a long time since I’d been held like that and felt like I had someone to shoulder my burden. I was a strong woman and I was accustomed to handling things on my own, but sometimes it was nice when you didn’t have to be strong. For the past twenty-something years, Leon and I had shared the good and the bad. He was gone, and I hadn’t realized how alone I felt until now.

  The tears started slowly but increased. I had no idea how long I cried, but Frank held on until the waterworks finally dried up.

  “You okay?”

  I hiccupped. “I am now, although I look horrible and your shirt is ruined.”

  Frank had on a white shirt and my makeup left an imprint of my face on his shirt. He looked down and shrugged. “That’s pretty cool. It’s almost like a picture.”

  “I’ll get you a stain removal wipe. It’ll get the makeup out and . . .”

  Frank took my face in his hands and stared into my eyes. “I don’t care about the shirt. I want to know what’s wrong and how can I help?”

  The concern and affection in his eyes made me weepy.

  I sniffed and started to cry again. “That’s so nice.”

  He patted my back and would have pulled me close again, but I pushed away. “No. I’m fine. Let’s go upstairs.” I used the sleeve of my sweater to wipe my eyes. This sweater would never be the same again anyway. “I need a cup of tea.”

  Moving toward the stairs roused the poodles, who had given up scratching at our legs while I cried and had lain down on the rug.

  I turned to Frank. “Would you mind letting the poodles out while I go upstairs and get myself together.”

  “Come on, guys.” Like the Pied Piper, he led the poodles outside to take care of business.

  I went upstairs and changed out of my mimosa and champagne soaked sweater into a JAMU sweatshirt the twins gave me for my birthday. One look in the bathroom mirror reinforced that crying was something I needed to only indulge in privately. My eyes were red and puffy. I had mascara and eyeliner rings under each eye that made me look like a raccoon. I washed my face and used a cold compress to reduce the swelling before joining Frank.

  He was sitting on the sofa. Snickers was on his lap, flat on her back. Belly exposed, she angled her body and used her paw to manipulate his hand to scratch her in just the right place. Her lips were curled into what appeared to be a smile and her eyes were rolled back in her head in a look of ecstasy. Oreo sat on the opposite side while Frank scratched behind his ear. He had found the exact spot that made Oreo’s leg twitch uncontrollably.

  I stood for a few moments and watched the peaceful scene. “Do you guys need a moment? I can come back.”

  Frank smiled. “They’re your dogs. If they’re spoiled . . .” He stopped scratching the dogs and the barking started immediately.

  I picked up Snickers and sat next to Frank. I put my head on his shoulder and Snickers on my lap.

  Frank put his arm around me. “Want to tell me what’s been going on?”

  I took a deep breath and poured out my heart. I told him about Maria’s murder and Nana Jo. He asked a few questions but let me finish unloading. When I finished updating him on Nana Jo, I told him about my mom. I suspected he was laughing, but when I tried to turn to look at his face, he was careful to remove any signs of amusement.

  “Wow. Your mom’s getting married in less than a month. Do you think your grandmother knows?”

  I sat up and stared. “Oh my God. There’s no way Nana Jo knows about this. She would have told me.”

  We sat in silence for a few seconds while I mulled over the idea. I felt vibration. I turned and stared and this time he wasn’t able to hide
his amusement. Frank laughed.

  I stared at him for several seconds. “This isn’t funny.”

  “You have got to be kidding.” He laughed. “Your grandmother is going to blow a gasket.”

  I imagined Nana Jo’s face and laughed until my sides hurt. “I needed a good laugh.” I stood. “I’m going to make a cup of tea. Do you want something?”

  Frank had to go back to the restaurant later, so he asked for a cup of coffee.

  I used my single serve coffee maker to make both. We sat at the breakfast bar and finished off Dawson’s lemon bars while we finished our drinks.

  “Have you heard how things went with your grandmother’s statement?”

  “No. We agreed to meet at your place later for drinks so we can get started on our investigation.”

  He nodded absentmindedly. “That’s good. I don’t think your grandmother should stay in her villa.”

  I looked at him. “You don’t think she’s in any danger, do you?”

  He shrugged. “Probably not, but better safe than sorry. Based on what you said, a lot of people heard her threaten Maria. It’s unlikely the murderer killed Maria just to spite your grandmother, but . . .”

  “Nana Jo’s a pretty tough cookie.”

  “Oh, I know. There’s just something a little fishy about this whole thing.” His brow was furled. “Someone had to have been watching your grandmother. They left that note to lure her to Maria’s condo.”

  “Maybe Detective Pitt can get some fingerprints off the note.”

  Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. You’d have to live under a rock not to know to wear gloves these days.” He shook his head again. “I doubt the killer left prints.”

  “I suppose that would make things a bit too easy, wouldn’t it?”

  He smiled. “Yep. You’re going to have to work a lot harder than that.”

  I yawned. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept.”

  He drank the last of his coffee and put the mug down, got up, and kissed me. “You better get some sleep.”

  I protested but he persisted. “I actually have to get back to the restaurant. The brunch crowd is over, but I have quite a bit of prep work to do before the dinner crowd.”

  “You work too hard.”

  He laughed. “If you knew what I did before I got this restaurant, you wouldn’t say that.”

  Frank didn’t share a lot of information about his previous life. I knew he retired from the military, but not much else. When asked, all he ever said was, “It’s classified.” I knew he traveled all over the world and knew how to do a lot of things the average person didn’t, like how to fly a helicopter and how to kill silently. This came up when I was talking to him about an idea for my manuscript. I wanted to write a scene where one of my characters came up behind someone and cut his throat. Frank listened quietly and then said if a quiet kill was important, then I needed to stab him in the kidney. The throat contracted and they would die quickly and quietly. He spoke softly and his eyes looked as though he was seeing something he didn’t want to remember. Ultimately, I decided against using the scene. Murder might be acceptable in a cozy mystery, but the reader didn’t need to read about the gory details. That was one of the times when I suspected his role was a lot more clandestine and dangerous than he admitted.

  Frank went back to work, and I went to bed. Often when I was tired, my mind refused to slow down so I could sleep. This wasn’t one of those times. I slept like a log, or a pig in slop, as Nana Jo would say. It was only a few hours, but I slept hard and woke up feeling refreshed. Fortunately, I’d set my phone to wake me up or I might have slept well into the night.

  I showered and dressed. The swelling had gone down and my eyes no longer looked as if I was wearing goggles. I made an extra effort with my makeup and hair. Frank saw me looking pretty bad earlier, but I was at home. In public, I didn’t want to embarrass him or myself.

  Despite all of the delicious goodies Dawson prepared, I had lost a little weight. I think it came from running up and down the stairs from my apartment to the bookstore multiple times every day. Combine the stairs with lifting boxes of books, squatting low and reaching high to shelve the books, and I was getting a pretty good workout from my new life activities. My new jeans made my butt look good and my legs longer. I put on a V-neck sweater and stacked-heel boots. I took one last look in the mirror and approved the reflection staring back at me, then headed down the street to my meeting.

  The temperature had dropped considerably from earlier in the day. I shivered and hurried down the block. The heat inside the restaurant fogged my glasses, but I made out our table even without my glasses. Frank had pushed several tables together and had a reserve sign on them. Nana Jo, Ruby Mae, and Judge Miller were already seated. Irma, Dorothy, and Freddie were at the bar. I walked over to the table and took a seat across from Nana Jo.

  “Hello, Judge. I’m glad you decided to join us.”

  Judge Miller smiled. “I’m glad to have been asked. Freddie told me a lot about you and the North Harbor Irregulars.” He laughed.

  Before I opened Market Street Mysteries, I never realized how many mystery book readers lived in North Harbor. I learned there were a lot more mystery, thriller, suspense, and true crime book readers in this area than I previously thought. I was no longer surprised when I ran across references to Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie. Judge Miller’s reference to the North Harbor Irregulars was obviously meant as an homage to Sherlock Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars, a band of street children Holmes used as intelligence agents in some of his capers.

  “Are you a fan of Sherlock Holmes?”

  Judge Miller chuckled. “I am indeed. Josephine has been telling me about your wonderful mystery bookstore.” He leaned close and whispered, “As well as your sleuthing ability.”

  A waitress I wasn’t familiar with came by the table and smiled as she placed a glass of water with lemon in front of me, along with a glass of Moscato from a local winery. I wasn’t a wine drinker. In fact, I wasn’t much of a drinker. I preferred sweet, fruity drinks with very little alcohol. Frank was a wine connoisseur and was attempting to indoctrinate me. So far, he’d discovered I liked a classic white Demi-Sec grown at a local winery and a California Moscato.

  I turned to the bar and gave him a big smile in thanks.

  The restaurant was very busy, but he smiled, raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head in a way that let me know he approved of the way I looked.

  Nana Jo banged the table. “Let’s get this party started.”

  I turned around.

  Nana Jo took her iPad out of her purse. “Ben, Freddie, and I went to the police station and gave a statement, but you all already know everything anyway.”

  Dorothy turned to Judge Miller. “Are they going to arrest her?”

  Judge Miller took a moment before he answered. “I don’t know. I doubt it, but it’ll depend on what they find out from the autopsy and the forensic report.” He looked around the table, as though he were addressing a jury. “It’ll depend on what evidence they find. Unfortunately, Josephine was heard threatening the deceased—”

  “Pshaw.” Nana Jo scoffed.

  Judge Miller shook his head. “Whether you meant to do harm or not, you were heard having a big argument only hours earlier. You don’t have an alibi and you were seen in the vicinity around the time of death.”

  “Isn’t that all what they call circumstantial?” I asked tentatively.

  He nodded. “Oh, yes, but people have gone to jail on a lot less than that. Josephine had motive, she had opportunity, and she had the means.”

  I frowned. “So, why haven’t they arrested her?”

  Judge Miller shrugged. “It’s still early and the district attorney will want to make sure all of the i’s are dotted and t’s crossed.”

  “So, where do we start?” Dorothy asked.

  Freddie cleared his throat. “I talked to my son, Mark. He’s going to get as much information as he can.” He pulled a notepad from
his pocket. “He ran a background on the deceased.” He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and put them on. “Maria Romanov was born Mary Rose Pratt in Goshen, Indiana.”

  “I knew it.” Nana Jo crowed. “I knew she was a liar. A Russian princess my big toe. Ha!” She slapped her hand on the table, rattling the dishes.

  Freddie smiled indulgently. “Yes, you were right. She was arrested once for blackmail, but nothing was ever proved and the charges were dropped.” He was silent a few minutes. “There was nothing else, about her, but . . .”

  We stared.

  “But what?” Nana Jo asked.

  “He said there was some talk going around that Detective Pitt was not very well liked. In fact, the chief inspector is tired of his incompetence and plans to fire him.”

  I stared at Freddie. “I don’t like him, but I hate for anyone to lose their job.”

  Nana Jo was less sympathetic. “Serves him right. I think he’s got it in for our family. He wanted to arrest you for murder. He did arrest Dawson and he thinks I murdered that pumpkin-haired hussy.”

  “I know, but I just feel badly about someone losing their job.” I sipped my Moscato.

  “Humph.” Nana Jo folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t feel badly for him. You shouldn’t either.” She uncrossed her arms to point at me. “You’ve had to do his work for him and solve his last two cases.”

  I recognized the stubborn look in her eyes and the obstinate set of her chin. Nana Jo had made up her mind and she would not be moved.

  Freddie winked at me and took off his glasses. “I’m not usually at these meetings. What happens now?” He looked from Nana Jo to me.

  Nana Jo was still angry, but she uncrossed her arms and picked up her iPad. Soon, she looked at me. “Well?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this.” I looked around at the girls. “Normally, you all use your connections to get information about the people involved. This time, you know the people involved. You live with them.”

  The girls nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking about some of the things you’ve told me about Maria . . . ah, Mary.”