The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  I asked for Detective Pitt at the main desk and waited until he came to get me. Surprise registered on his face as he looked at me. Apparently, I had interrupted his breakfast as he was munching on a breakfast sandwich.

  “You here to confess?” he asked with a full mouth.

  “I was hoping we could have a talk. Is this a good time?”

  Detective Pitt stared at me for a few seconds and then stepped aside and permitted me to pass behind the counter. Either he had several pairs of tight polyester pants or he wore the same ones over and over again. I was almost certain these were the same pants he had on Saturday night or Sunday morning when I saw him. I probably wouldn’t have noticed them if they weren’t so tight and so short. He wore a large white belt and a vibrant flowered polyester shirt. Few people would forget seeing that outfit.

  He escorted me into a small office that wasn’t much bigger than a closet. It didn’t have any windows and there was barely room for his desk and a guest chair. He sat and continued to eat his sandwich.

  I sat down in the stiff-backed chair and waited for Detective Pitt to finish eating.

  “You want something?” he asked in between bites.

  “I can wait until you finish eating.”

  He looked at me and then put down his sandwich, wiped his hands, and turned to face me. “How can I help you?”

  I ignored the sarcasm. “Detective Pitt, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye.”

  He snorted. “That’s putting it lightly.”

  “However, you have to admit my grandmother, her friends, and I have been right about quite a few things.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like “beginner’s luck.”

  I didn’t want to upset him, so I pretended not to hear. “I’ve read mysteries for as long as I can remember and while I’m not a professional, like you.” I thought a little ego stroking would be good. “I have learned how to find clues and put them together. I was hoping that rather than us working against each other, maybe we could work together. Maybe I can help.”

  Detective Pitt’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, help? How exactly are you and a couple of old busybodies supposed to help me?”

  I took a deep breath, thankful Nana Jo wasn’t here to hear. “I’ve heard a rumor that maybe . . . you might be in a bit of trouble. . . .”

  His face turned red and I thought he was going to explode. He got up so suddenly, he pushed his chair into the wall. He reached across and slammed the door.

  I wasn’t expecting the sudden movement and jumped.

  He leaned down, his face just inches from my face. “What have you heard?”

  “Well . . . I heard the new chief wanted . . . well, that he wasn’t happy with how you . . .” I fidgeted and hemmed and hawed and tried to find the right words. I was nervous and dropped my purse in my agitation. I bent down to pick it up.

  Detective Pitt must have had the same idea because he bent down at the same time. Our heads smacked together. The impact made me lurch back and when I sat up, we collided again.

  “Ouch.”

  I was sitting. So, while the collision was painful, the top of my skull took most of the blow. Unfortunately, Detective Pitt wasn’t so lucky. The first blow hit the front of his head, but the second connected with the bottom of his jaw.

  He muttered a few expletives that would have made Irma feel right at home with her truckers and then flopped into his chair.

  I reached over to help.

  He leaned away from me. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry. It was an accident.” I stared at him as he held the bottom of his chin with one hand and his head with the other.

  “What do you want?”

  I sat back down in my chair. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “How? By killing me?”

  I’d had enough. “Oh, stop being such a baby.” I swatted his hand away from his chin.

  There was a small cut on the underside of his chin.

  “Open up?” I used my best schoolmarm voice, which brooked no opposition.

  Detective Pitt obeyed.

  I examined his mouth. “You bit your cheek.” I turned around and grabbed my purse and pulled out a small first aid kit I’d picked up at the dollar store. Inside, there was a tiny plastic bag with three cotton balls and a gauze pad. I folded the gauze pad around the cotton. “Open up.”

  His eyes were wide and his brow furrowed, but he opened up. I shoved the pad in his mouth. “Now apply pressure.” I opened the door.

  “Where’re you going?” The cotton and gauze muffled his words so badly I could barely make them out but used my deductive reasoning to guess what he said.

  “I’ll be right back. Wait here.”

  I left and closed the door behind me. I walked down the hall. The good thing about all the time I’d spent in the police station was I knew where every vending machine and water fountain was located. I went to the break room and grabbed paper towels. I took the salt shaker and shook quite a bit of salt into the bottom of a Styrofoam cup and then filled it with cold water. I got a bottle of water from a vending machine and two empty cups and filled another with ice water and then returned.

  Detective Pitt hadn’t moved.

  I handed him the empty cup and the cup with salt water. “Rinse your mouth with the salt water and spit it into the empty cup.”

  He scowled at me for a few seconds but eventually pulled the bloody wad of cotton and gauze out and did what I told him. The first couple of times, the spittle was dark red, and I could tell by the way he winced, the salt burned. But as he continued the process, it became pinker and eventually was practically clear. When he had rinsed with the entire saltwater solution, I handed him the cup with the water.

  I picked up my purse and got some ibuprofen and handed him two pills. “Take this.” I filled the cup with water.

  He took the pills and drank the water. When he was done, I dumped some of the ice into the water bottle and wrapped it in the paper towels. “Now hold this on your jaw.”

  He looked pretty pathetic sitting at his desk with a bottle of water on his cheek, but he’d be fine once the ibuprofen kicked in.

  “Now, just sit and listen and don’t interrupt.” I sat down.

  He mumbled something that sounded like “menace to society.”

  I ignored him and took a deep breath. “I heard the chief hasn’t been happy with you and wants to fire you.”

  His eyes got big and he looked as though he wanted to speak, but I hurried on. “I think we can help each other.”

  There was a question on his face, but he remained silent.

  “I know you think I’m a rank amateur who’s gotten lucky, but that’s not true. I’ve spent most of my life reading mystery novels, and I’m good at figuring out whodunit. Nana Jo and the girls may be old busybodies, but that’s what makes them so good at getting information. They’ve lived a long time and have a lot of connections. If they don’t know someone, then they know someone who knows someone. You were wrong when you thought I killed Clayton Parker. You were wrong when you thought Dawson killed Melody Hardwick, and you’re wrong if you think Nana Jo killed Maria Romanov or Mary Rose Pratt.”

  He sat up. “How do you know her real name?”

  “One of the old busybodies told me.” I huffed. “Look, I know things don’t look good and you have every reason to suspect her, but she didn’t do it. I know it and just like I figured out who killed Clayton Parker and Melody Hardwick, I am going to figure out who killed Maria Romanov.” I stopped. This conversation hadn’t gone at all as I’d planned, but I needed to get my proposition across. “I was hoping that rather than working against each other, we could work together.”

  “How?” He looked leery.

  “You share information with us and—”

  “If you’re so good, what kind of information do you need from me?”

  “Forensic information, the coroner’s report, any evidence that will help. I’ll share anything we lea
rn in the course of our investigation. What’s more, when I figure out who killed Maria Romanov, and I will figure it out, I’ll come to you and only you. You’ll take full credit for catching a murderer. The chief inspector will be happy and you’ll get to keep your job.”

  I could tell by the way his eyes moved around he was considering my proposition. He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t do it. Too risky. If the chief found out I was working with civilians, he’d fire me on the spot.”

  “He won’t find out. We can meet at the bookstore. He’ll never know.”

  “I need to make an arrest soon.”

  I was desperate. “I guarantee you’ll have your murderer by Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanksgiving? That’s only ten days away.”

  I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to pass out. “I know.”

  Detective Pitt was fully attentive and sitting up straight. “I can probably stall until Thanksgiving, but what if you don’t figure it out by then?”

  I wracked my brain. “Then you can always arrest Nana Jo.”

  Chapter 11

  “You told him what?” Nana Jo’s voice rang loudly throughout the store.

  There was a small book club meeting in a reading corner we set up a few months ago. Heads turned, but no one ventured over to see what the disturbance was about.

  “Shhh. I’m sorry, but I had to say something.” I’d had a terrifying flutter in the pit of my stomach and buzzing in my ears ever since I left the police station. In my head, I knew Detective Pitt could arrest Nana Jo whenever he wanted. I still felt horrible. “I’m so sorry.”

  Nana Jo stared at me for what felt like an hour. Then she reached out and hugged me close to her. “It’s okay. I knew you were going to try and get him to help you. It was just a bit of a shock to hear . . . well, it was a shock.”

  I pulled away and looked her in the eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I know Stinky Pitt could arrest me any time he wants to.” She took my face in her hands. “I also know you’re going to figure out who killed her. I have faith in you.”

  I hugged her and prayed her faith would be rewarded.

  We worked the rest of the day in peace and harmony, although I was a bit distracted.

  Dawson stopped by after class.

  “Hey, there. Congrats on the win,” I whispered when he hugged me.

  Dawson was fine with being the center of attention on the football field but preferred to stay low-key everywhere else.

  “Did you see the polls?” Nana Jo was an avid football fan. “MISU’s in the top ten.”

  Dawson smiled. “Yeah, I saw them yesterday, but I’m not going to let myself think about the polls. Next week’s game won’t be so easy.”

  “You’ll roll right over them like you’ve rolled over everyone else,” Nana Jo said.

  He grinned and pointed to a large bag of laundry. “You mind if I—”

  “You don’t even need to ask. Go on up.”

  He adjusted his backpack and picked up his laundry bag and headed upstairs.

  Dawson’s studio over my garage was small, with no washer or dryer, so he did his laundry upstairs while he studied or baked. I’d thought about installing a compact washer/dryer combo, but when I asked, he said he didn’t need it. He was more than willing to go to a laundry mat or do his laundry on campus. I enjoyed having him there. I think he enjoyed it too. He was the son Leon and I never had. His mom died when he was a baby, so I was the mom he’d never known. All in all, it was an agreeable situation.

  Nana Jo was an avid mystery reader and was great with customers. I told her she was free to go, but she stayed until closing. It was nice having her there with me. Working side by side was like old times. When the last customer left, we cleaned, reshelved books, and took out the trash.

  “Thank you so much for all of the help.” I hugged her. “You didn’t have to stay, but I really appreciated it. I love working with you.”

  She squeezed me tight. “I enjoyed myself. I like working and helping people find books they love. Plus, it helped take my mind off things.”

  “Were you able to get in touch with your friend, the research librarian?”

  She looked at her watch. “Actually, I’m meeting Elliot for drinks in thirty minutes.”

  I smiled. “Drinks.”

  “Oh, knock it off.”

  “Does Freddie know you’re going for drinks with Elliot?” I grinned.

  “No, he doesn’t, and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t tell him either.”

  “Secrets?” I joked. “That’s never good in any relationship.”

  She stopped reshelving books and looked at me. “I know you’re having a good laugh, Sam, but I’m not telling Freddie I’m going for drinks with Elliot for two very good reasons.” She held up one finger. “Freddie’s been overly protective since this whole thing happened. He thinks someone has it in for me and that’s why they’re trying to frame me for Maria’s murder.”

  I dropped the smile from my face. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. He might have a point.”

  “No, he does not!” Nana Jo said emphatically. “I agree someone is trying to frame me, but I refuse to believe there is a big conspiracy theory where Maria was killed merely to set me up for murder.”

  “Well, you know the plot in my last book sort of did just that—”

  “Sam, I love your books, but they’re fiction, not real life. I’m not important enough. Besides, I know I can be irritating, but I doubt I’ve irritated anyone to that extent.”

  “I don’t know. You can be pretty irritating,” I joked.

  She swatted my butt.

  “Okay. I concede your argument. What’s the second reason you aren’t telling Freddie about Elliot.”

  “I don’t think of Elliot as anything more than a friend. I don’t tell Freddie when I go out to drinks with my girlfriends. Why should I have to specifically mention when I go out for drinks with a guy friend?”

  I looked at my grandmother with a new respect and awe. “You’re right. If Elliot is truly nothing more than a friend, I agree. His sex shouldn’t matter.” I squinted at my grandmother. “Except that Elliot used to be more than just a friend.”

  “That was over a long time ago, long before I met Freddie.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Oh, I will. Besides, I’ve got my peacemaker just in case.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  Nana Jo left and I headed upstairs. As I reached the top of the stairs, my phone vibrated. I saw my sister’s face on the screen.

  “Hello—”

  My sister, Jenna, had a loud voice. Perhaps it was honed over her years of speaking to jurors in the courtroom. Whatever the reason, her voice was loud. When she was upset, it was even louder. On a cell phone on a Caribbean island where I could hear the rhythmic beat of steel drums and snatches of tourist conversation in the background, she sounded even louder. Combine everything together and I literally had to hold the phone about six inches from my ear to protect my eardrums.

  “What happened? I got fourteen messages from you to call. We have poor reception on the ship. This better be good. I’m paying a small fortune in roaming charges for this call.” She said everything really quickly so the words all ran together and at a decibel level that made my insides quiver.

  “Sorry for all the calls. I forgot you were on the cruise.” Nana Jo and I talked about whether we should call Jenna or not. She and her husband, Tony, were celebrating twenty-five years of wedded bliss. There wasn’t anything they could do and there was no reason to ruin their anniversary with unnecessary worry. We agreed only to call Jenna if things looked dire and if Nana Jo was arrested. However, with my older sister on the phone, I was tempted to spill my guts about Nana Jo as well as our mother’s impending marriage. Misery loved company and I felt resentful my sister was enjoying herself while I had to track down a murderer. Instead, I took a deep breath and lied through my teeth. “Sorry abo
ut that. I went out with Nana Jo and the girls and must have had too much to drink. I think I called quite a few people that night.”

  My sister’s end of the conversation went silent.

  “Hello? You still there?”

  She must have hung up.

  I took a deep breath and thanked my lucky stars she bought it. She was angry with me, but she’d get over it. With any luck, by the time she got home next week, we’d have this whole thing wrapped up and maybe we’d all be able to laugh about it.

  I had three hours before our meeting. After my meeting with Detective Pitt, he’d left me alone in his office with his notepad from his interviews. I read them quickly and took a few notes of my own. I sat down with a cup of tea and read through my notes. Detective Pitt’s writing was horrible. In some cases, I’d had to guess what he meant. My own writing wasn’t much better, especially given the fact I was under a time crunch. However, I squinted over my notes and tried to make sense of things.

  One of the things Detective Pitt’s notes helped with was a timeline. After Freddie helped Maria to her room, she attempted to get him to stay. Detective Pitt scribbled a few words near this that didn’t take much to translate. Maria made a pass at Freddie, which he declined. Detective Pitt had several personal comments and reminders beside his notes which made for interesting reading.

  6:30—Freddie takes Maria to her apartment—*Verified by neighbors

  7:00—Horace Evans entered apartment—*Nosy Neighbor

  7:30—Horace left apartment–*NN remembered because favorite Britcom was just coming on, Are you Being Served?—Look up Britcom.

  8:00—Gaston Renoir entered apartment with food tray—*Same NN

  8:30—Denise Bennett entered—Britcom ended and Keeping Up Appearances came on—*Need to look up timetable for PBS station to verify.

  8:45—Denise Bennett left apartment—Seen by security guard in elevator—remembers because he didn’t want to be caught watching football game on television and JAMU had just scored touchdown to take fourth quarter lead—*Need to check JAMU scores and times.