Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Over my dead body.”

  The things one learns in the ladies’ room. I cleared my throat to make my presence known. The door opened and slammed shut. Then silence.

  Waiting a moment, I cautiously exited the stall into an empty restroom. Who were those two women? Sounded like a former girlfriend of the famous author might be trying to encroach on his fiancée’s territory.

  As I plucked my wet dress away from my skin in a feeble attempt to dry it, a few of the toilet-paper dots dropped to the floor. Grabbing some paper towels, I blotted my dress, trying ineffectively to dry it off. Great. Now I had shredded-brown-paper dots sticking all over me. I flashed back to that gorgeous brown-and-white polka-dotted dress Julia Roberts wore at the polo match in Pretty Woman. I checked the mirror. Yeah, not even close. More like a giraffe mated with one of those frizzy-headed goats.

  I sighed. The only thing to do was cover as much of my wet T-shirt giraffe dress with my scarf as possible, then unobtrusively slip out the back door and make a run for it. Luckily, my house was only two blocks away. I moved to grab my silk scarf from the end of the antique vanity where I had tossed it in the heat of the hot-flash moment. Not there. I checked the other end of the vanity. Not there either. Had it slipped off and fallen to the floor? I checked, but didn’t see any turquoise atop the wide-planked wooden floors. Maybe it had fallen into the wastebasket. Nope. I searched the whole bathroom. Nada. My turquoise scarf with the whimsical pom-poms on the ends had disappeared.

  Then I remembered the rustle of silk.

  Not disappeared. Stolen. No wonder the jasmine-scented mystery woman hadn’t answered my paper towel plea—she was too busy stealing one of my favorite scarves.

  * * *

  Half an hour later I stepped out of the shower, having scrubbed away every trace of my polka-dotted humiliation. When I saw myself in the mirror, I recalled the giraffe image from the bookstore and burst out laughing.

  Gracie trotted in and tilted her head at me. What’s so funny?

  “Ah, Gracie-girl, leave it to your mommy to turn a special event into the sublimely ridiculous.” I had managed to escape Char’s bookstore mostly unseen, with only a few people in the back row catching a glimpse of me, intent as they all were on Tavish Bentley. The spiky-haired platinum-blonde Boobsey twin had turned and stared at me as I left, zeroing in on my concave chest. When I checked my phone, it was flooded with texts from my mom, Sharon, Char, and Brady, which I answered in order.

  Mom: Where ARE you? It’s rude to miss the signing, especially as a fellow author. People might think you’re jealous.

  Me: Not jealous. Had a fashion emergency and had to leave unexpectedly. Will explain later.

  Sharon: Are you okay? After you were gone fifteen minutes, I checked the restroom, but you had disappeared. I’m worried. What’s going on?

  Me: Sorry for causing you worry—my bad I’m fine. Had a hot flash emergency that turned into a comedy of errors, leaving me unfit for human contact. Please give Tavish my regrets and tell him I enjoyed meeting him.

  Char: Did you fall in? I know I have good reading material in there, but we’re missing you.

  Me: Hot flash emergency. It wasn’t pretty. Long story. Meanwhile, if you see a woman in the bookstore wearing a turquoise scarf with pom-poms that resembles mine, it is. Beyotch stole my scarf!

  Brady my sheriff pal: Should I send in the cavalry?

  Me: No need. Girl problems, but all is fine now. Meanwhile, there is a petty thief in town. Have Char fill you in.

  I pulled on one of my vintage bohemian crinkle skirts, a flowing peasant blouse, a red-fringed scarf, and my silver Celtic-knot earrings from Cornwall.

  Gracie gave a short bark and scooted her bottom across the rug.

  “Someone has flop-bott and needs to go outside.” I first encountered the term flop-bott when reading about the spoiled Tricki Woo in James Herriot’s wonderful veterinary tales set in Yorkshire. Although Gracie is not English, or spoiled (much), I am a die-hard Anglophile, so I appropriated the expression for myself. I clipped on Gracie’s leash, and she bounded to the front door.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

  Once outside, Gracie scampered to the grassy lawn next door, checking her pee-mail. After she had answered all her messages and I had deleted the fragrant results, she wagged her tail and regarded me eagerly.

  “Good girl. Yes, you’ve earned a nice long walk.” We set off down the sidewalk, with my Eskie stopping every few feet to sniff her mail, giving me a chance to enjoy my surroundings. June in Lake Potawatomi is one of my favorite times of year, with all the dogwood, wisteria, hydrangeas, and roses in bloom. I stopped to admire Joanne LaPoint’s white lacy hydrangeas in front of her neat blue cottage, but my impatient Gracie pulled on the leash.

  Sometimes I set the route for our walks; other times I let Gracie lead. Today I followed my canine daughter. She led me a couple of blocks, turned the corner, and sprinted to the alley behind the Corner Bookstore, nose in the air and sniffing madly. Then she began to bark.

  I caught a glimpse of familiar turquoise pom-poms on the ground beside the dumpster. “Good girl! You found mommy’s scarf.” Although why the bathroom thief would go to all the trouble of stealing my silk scarf just to discard it a short time later was beyond me.

  Maybe she’s a kleptomaniac, my inner snark suggested.

  Gracie strained at the leash, barking frantically, as we neared the dumpster, where I spotted a longer section of turquoise silk. A crumpled section with a spilled Coke can atop the silk. Definitely my scarf. Ruined. I sighed, rounded the corner of the dumpster, and screamed.

  The Baywatch blonde in the red bandage dress with the huge rock on her finger—Tavish Bentley’s fiancée—lay dead on the ground, wafting faint whiffs of jasmine, my turquoise silk scarf wrapped around her neck.

  Chapter Two

  My legs buckled as Gracie strained forward and continued barking. Sitting down heavily on the hard concrete, I pulled my distressed dog to me. She yelped as her paws caught in the turquoise pom-poms. Leaning over to extricate Gracie from the scarf, I fought down the bile that threatened to erupt from my churning stomach as I averted my eyes from the dead woman’s staring face.

  Brady Wells burst through the back door of the bookstore. My head snapped up to meet the astonished eyes of our sheriff, my fingers still entangled in the scarf’s pom-poms. Gracie barked anew.

  “Teddie! What happened?” Brady hurried our way, taking care not to contaminate the area more than I already had, I belatedly realized. You’d think I would have known better, since I write murder mysteries, but this was the first murder I’d encountered in real life.

  Another scream rent the air. The sheriff whirled around as a cluster of women spilled out of the bookstore into the alley.

  “Oh my God! Kristi!” wailed the Boobsey twin pal of Tavish’s fiancée, her heavily made-up eyes wide with horror. The platinum-haired millennial pointed a shaking sapphire-tipped finger at me. “She killed Kristi!”

  The trio of women started to surge forward, but Brady held up his hand in a stop motion. “Stay back, everyone. This is a crime scene.”

  Another cluster of people exited the back door of the Corner Bookstore, including Sharon, Char, and my mother. The last fluttered her hand to her chest and shrieked. “Teddie, what have you done?”

  Seriously, Mom?

  Just then, a crowd burst around the side of the brick building. Through my daze, I dimly registered the rest of the bookstore audience, Tavish Bentley, and his publicist Melanie.

  “What the—” Melanie began.

  “Kristi,” breathed Tavish, catching sight of his fiancée. His stunned hazel eyes locked on mine.

  Gracie’s paws finally broke free from the turquoise pom-poms. I hugged my shaking dog to my trembling chest, burying my face in her creamy fur. “It’s okay, Gracie-girl. It’s okay.”

  Through a fog—was I in shock?—I heard Brady’s voice barking instructions into his phone, then felt hi
s hand on my shoulder. “Can you stand up?”

  I set Gracie down as the sheriff helped me to my feet and gently led my dog and me away from the curious crowd.

  “You’d better arrest her,” shouted the remaining blonde Boobsey twin. “I saw her sneak out of the bookstore earlier. She was probably lying in wait to ambush poor Kristi in hopes that with her gone she’d have a shot with Tavish.” Her derisive gaze swept me from head to toe, lingering on my flat chest. “As if.”

  My two Musketeer pals shot daggers at her, and Gracie growled. She took a step back.

  Moments later, Brady’s young deputy, Augie Jorgensen—Char’s baby brother—raced into the alley. Augie shooed the lookie-loos back. Then, squaring his shoulders, he moved toward the body on the ground and, with a face bleached of color, unspooled a roll of yellow crime scene tape.

  After a quick consultation with his deputy and Char, Brady gently ushered me into Char’s office at the back of the bookstore. At the same time, Char and Sharon led a shaken Tavish Bentley and the assembled guests back inside with promises of coffee and kringle.

  Sinking into the leather mission-style armchair across from my best friend’s beau, I stroked Gracie’s fur and stared at the books lining the walls, always a calming influence.

  “Okay, Ted,” Brady said kindly, using the nickname he had given me in high school, “you want to tell me what happened?”

  I recounted how I had been out walking Gracie when she led me to the alley behind the store, where I spotted my stolen scarf beside the dumpster, which in turn led me to discovering Kristi’s body with my scarf around her neck. Flashing back to her still form on the ground, I recalled my earlier conversation with Char and Sharon. Even in death, Kristi’s boob job did not let her down.

  For all the good it did her. I rubbed my eyes.

  Brady’s voice intruded on my rueful recollection. “So you knew her?”

  “What? No. I never saw her before today.”

  “But you knew her name.”

  “That’s what her friend and Tavish called her.”

  Brady scribbled in his notebook. “And how well do you know Tavish Bentley?”

  “I don’t. I just met him today.” I angled my head at him. Brady should know that. Char, excited by the prospect of snagging the famous, wildly successful New York Times best-selling author for her store when the Milwaukee bookstore on his tour had canceled days earlier, had been telling everyone in town how much we both couldn’t wait to meet him.

  A knock on the door interrupted us, and speak of the devil, Char entered with a tray holding two steaming mugs and a plate of Havarti and kringle. Gracie jumped down from my lap, nose twitching, straining toward the tray. Char set the tray down on the desk and removed a dog biscuit from her pocket, which she tossed to Gracie, who caught it in her mouth and retreated beneath the desk to enjoy her treat.

  “I thought you could use some sustenance.” Char handed me one of the mugs. “Drink this chamomile tea; it will calm you.”

  I took a grateful sip as Brady scarfed down a piece of pecan kringle and drank his coffee. Char started to leave.

  “Hang on a sec, Char. I have a question for you,” Brady said, in his sheriff rather than his boyfriend voice. “When did Teddie tell you her scarf had been stolen?”

  Char gave him a curious glance, but pulled out her phone and scrolled through the texts. “At eleven forty-three AM. Why?”

  He ignored her question and turned to me. “And what time did you actually leave the store?”

  I scrunched up my forehead, trying to recall. “I don’t know exactly. I was in kind of a hurry to get out of here. Maybe five to ten minutes after the signing started. About 11:05 AM? 11:10?”

  Brady’s mouth set in a grim line. “Why were you in such a hurry to leave, Ted? You texted me you were having girl problems. Were those problems with the deceased?”

  Char and I both stared at him openmouthed.

  “Are you kidding me? Do you honestly think I killed that girl? Someone I don’t even know?” My mystery-author nature kicked in. “Strangled her with my own scarf and left the evidence behind? That would be pretty stupid.”

  Char’s red ponytail swung as she punched her longtime boyfriend on the shoulder. “What is wrong with you? How could you even think such a thing?”

  Brady’s lips tightened. “I’m only doing my job. These are questions I have to ask.” He shot me an unhappy look. “I’ll ask you again. What kind of girl problems were you having that caused you to leave the bookstore so suddenly?”

  So I told him the whole hot-flash-debacle story—TP dots and all.

  “I didn’t want to disrupt the author’s talk and cause a scene.” I pointed to my chest with both hands and said dryly, “And this baby minus its usual scarf camouflage with wet cotton clinging to every feature is far too graphic a scene for most to handle—especially when they’re expecting foothills rather than valleys.”

  The sheriff’s face flushed. “Sorry, Ted. So, your scarf was stolen from the restroom vanity while you were, uh, otherwise engaged in the stall?”

  “You got it.”

  “And you didn’t see the woman—person—who took it?”

  “Nope. I smelled her, though—a faint scent of jasmine.” Then I remembered. “The same scent I smelled when Gracie and I found Kristi.” I stared at Brady as realization dawned. “Oh. My. Gosh. Tavish Bentley’s fiancée stole my scarf!” I was about to tell Brady about the second unknown woman who had entered the restroom when a discreet knock at the door stopped me.

  Sharon stuck her head in. “Uh, guys, excuse me, but Tavish would like to talk to Brady.” She pushed open the door and the New York Times best-selling author strode in, distraught.

  Oh no. Did he hear me? Way to kick a man when he’s down.

  Sharon retreated, gently closing the door behind her.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Char and I blurted in unison.

  Tavish gave us a brief nod, but his attention was laser-focused on Brady. “Sheriff, I think I know who killed Kristi.”

  I fingered the fringe of my red scarf, remembering how the English author had complimented my turquoise scarf earlier. The scarf now wrapped around his dead fiancée’s neck. Was he going to accuse me as well?

  “Have a seat,” Brady said, indicating the wooden chair beside me.

  Tavish sat down and shoved his hand through his dark hair. “Kristi has—had—this ex-boyfriend named Tom in LA. He’s a nasty sort—very dodgy, been in jail before—and he’s been harassing her for a while. Calling her on the phone at all hours, threatening her, following her, showing up unexpectedly. She had to get a restraining order against him.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Brady asked.

  “Months, but it increased when we got engaged a couple months ago.”

  They’ve only been engaged a couple of months? I exchanged a glance with Char, recalling the earlier bimbo conversation we Three Musketeers had indulged in about the now-dead Kristi. Our respective cheeks flushed with shame.

  Brady asked for Tom’s particulars, his full name, where he lived, and any other details Tavish knew about the ex-boyfriend, scratching them down in his notebook. As I watched the sure-to-be-heartbroken author answer, I slunk down in my chair, feeling worse by the minute.

  “How long was your fiancée with this Tom guy?” Brady asked.

  “Kristi’s not my fiancée,” Tavish said quietly, staring down at his hands. “We ended our engagement a few days ago. Or, rather, I ended it.”

  * * *

  “So, do you think Tavish Bentley killed his ex-fiancée?” Char mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate-chip–peanut-butter bar in the Lake House kitchen.

  Sharon grimaced. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”

  Char swallowed and took a swig of milk from her glass. “She taught me a lot of things, Blondie,” she said, using Sharon’s high school nickname, “but that doesn’t mean they stuck.”

>   Char loves teasing Sharon, who likes to play the role of “mom” in our Musketeers group, even though there’s only a six-month age difference between us. (Char and I are both forty-three; Sharon’s forty-four.) Probably because Sharon followed a more traditional path than we did, marrying her high school sweetheart after graduating from community college and giving birth a few years later to twins Josh and Jessica, now away at college.

  “Well, we all know sticking has never been one of your strengths,” Sharon snarked back.

  “Okay, guys.” I rapped on the large butcher-block kitchen island our stools were clustered around. “Let’s keep to the matter at hand. Um, murder at hand.” The three of us had decamped to Sharon’s B and B after Char closed the bookstore early upon her sheriff-boyfriend’s order. Although we were dying to hear why the best-selling author had ended his engagement to the buxom, now-dead Kristi, Brady had shooed us away and taken Tavish over to his office for further—private—questioning.

  “He couldn’t have killed her,” I said.

  “What?” Char took another drink of milk.

  “Tavish. He couldn’t have killed his ex because he was inside the bookstore, surrounded by a packed house at his book signing. Right?”

  “Right,” Sharon said.

  “Unless, of course, he slipped out back to sneak a cigarette, Kristi followed him, refusing to accept their broken engagement, got loud and hysterical, and he snapped and strangled her with my silk scarf that she’d stolen,” I mused in a dramatic voice.

  Sharon grinned. “Are you brainstorming your next mystery plot, Sherlock?”

  “Why not? I’m always on the lookout for new ideas, no matter how farfetched.”

  Char’s forehead creased. “Tavish did leave the store briefly. Said he had to take an important phone call.” Her face turned paler than usual, causing her freckles to stand out in stark relief. “And now that I think about it, I didn’t see Kristi anywhere.”

  “Well, the store was pretty crowded,” Sharon said. “It would be hard to see everyone.”