Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Take me, I’m yours, I longed to say. I settled for “Remind me. Is that Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Sense and Sensibility.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Char fanned her face. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Brady scowled.

  I tore my eyes away from Tavish as I cleared the plates and brought the pie to the table. If we had been alone, I would have grabbed my Jane Austen aficionado in a lip lock, but I had company and there was my big brother to consider. We’d invited Sharon and Jim to join us, but they had a foursome checking in early and couldn’t leave the B and B. I handed Brady a huge wedge of banana-cream. “Like Char, I’m not a big sci-fi fan either, but I loved The Time Machine.”

  Tavish picked up my cue. “That’s one of my favorites,” he said, “that and Stephen King’s The Stand.”

  Brady nodded approvingly. “The Stand is killer.”

  “We appear to have gotten a bit sidetracked, however.” Tavish forked up a mouthful of pie. “Teddie, we were talking about you showing me more of Wisconsin.”

  I would like to show you a lot more than that, especially after that Sense and Sensibility quote. Now, however, I need to prove myself to my publisher and save my career.

  “I would love to be your tour guide,” I said, “but I really can’t take time off right now because of my deadline.” Not with Baker Street’s concerns of “bad author behavior” hanging over my head.

  “I thought your book wasn’t due for a few more weeks yet.” Char licked the last trace of whipped cream from her fork.

  That’s what I get for being an open book and telling everyone everything. Except right now, I can’t tell them what’s going on with my publisher. I need to handle this on my own.

  Tavish tipped his head to one side, a quizzical expression on his face. Was that a flicker of hurt I saw in his gorgeous hazel eyes? “I thought you were well on track to meet your deadline,” he said. “Would a day or two make much difference? I always find when I’m nearing the end of the book that a couple days away gives me fresh eyes and renewed energy and focus for that final push.”

  Me too, I wanted to say. Trust me, I would like nothing more than a romantic getaway with you. My earlier hesitation about taking that next, intimate step had disappeared in the face of Tavish’s Sense and Sensibility declaration.

  “I—”

  Brady’s phone buzzed, saving me. “Sorry,” he said, pulling his cell out of his pocket.

  Char rolled her eyes. “Welcome to my world.”

  Brady read the text. When he finished, his face was grim.

  “What’s wrong?” Char and I said in unison.

  “That was from the Calumet City chief of police. They released Harley Cooke. He has an ironclad alibi for the night his wife was killed. He was in a motel with his girlfriend—his pregnant girlfriend.”

  My stomach plummeted. “So that means Annabelle’s murderer is still running around loose.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lunch broke up right after that. Now that the Calumet City police were out of the picture, Brady jumped back into full investigative mode and so did I, knowing my career hung in the balance.

  After Char and Brady departed, Tavish settled back in his chair and raked his hand through his hair. “It appears we’re back to square one. With Annabelle’s husband no longer a suspect, I can’t begin to imagine who might have killed her.”

  “Me either. I don’t have a clue.” But I’d better get one soon, before my publisher cancels my contract.

  I considered what Sharon had revealed to me over the phone earlier. “Tavish,” I said slowly, “do you think there’s a chance your ex-wife might have killed Annabelle?”

  “Lucinda?” He gave me an incredulous look. “Why in the world would she do that?”

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head, trying to figure it out. “I can’t think of a reason that makes sense for Lucinda to kill your stalker. Unlike Kristi.”

  “Kristi?” Tavish stared at me. “Wait. Are you saying you think Lucinda, not Annabelle, might have killed Kristi? Lucinda lives in LA.”

  “So does Tom Rogers. That didn’t stop him from coming out to Wisconsin.”

  Tavish waved his hand dismissively. “Tom followed Kristi everywhere. He was obsessed with her.”

  “Like Annabelle and Lucinda were obsessed with you.”

  “Annabelle was a stalker,” Tavish said softly. “Lucinda is not.” He tilted his head at me and knitted his brow. “Where is this all coming from, Teddie? Whatever made you bring up Lucinda?”

  “I heard about the catfight between her and Kristi when Lucinda showed up at your house. Her house, she called it. Her husband.” I placed my hand on Tavish’s arm and fixed him with a steady gaze. “Lucinda threatened Kristi and told her to watch her back.”

  “I know,” he said. “Melanie told me. So did Kristi.” Then Tavish did something odd. He grinned. “Lucinda is quite territorial, particularly when it comes to real estate, and particularly when she’s been drinking. She found my beach house and fell in love with it. Actually,” he said ruefully, “I think she loved the beach house more than she did me. She hated losing it in the divorce. I bought her out, and she’s been trying to get that house back ever since.” He reached down to pet Gracie, who had sidled over to him. “Periodically, Lucinda would call or text me when she’d been drinking and say, ‘You’d better watch your back, Bentley. I’m going to get it if it’s the last thing I do.”

  It. Get it. She meant the house. Not Kristi. Melanie had apparently misunderstood what Lucinda said, or perhaps Sharon had misunderstood Melanie. Either way, it had gotten lost in translation.

  “Lucinda didn’t kill Kristi, and she certainly didn’t kill Annabelle,” Tavish said. “She had no reason to do so. Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his texts. “Here it is.” Tavish passed me his phone.

  The photo showed a beaming Lucinda in a gauzy cover-up over a tiny black bikini on a sandy beach. Tavish’s ex-wife was not alone. A handsome silver-haired man with ultrawhite teeth gleaming in a bronzed face encircled Lucinda from behind with his glistening, silver-haired arms.

  “Who’s that?” I asked. “Boyfriend?”

  “Husband-to-be,” Tavish said. “They’re getting married next month.”

  “Oh.”

  “Notice what’s behind them?”

  I expanded the picture. A massive three-story shimmering cube of steel and glass facing the ocean filled the screen.

  Not my style at all. Way too modern.

  Yeah, but the view was killer. What do they say in real estate? Location, location, location.

  “Read the text,” Tavish said.

  You can keep your beach house, Tav. I found a better one. Hasta la vista, baby.

  “So … not Lucinda.” Guess I had better turn in my deerstalker hat.

  “Right,” Tavish said. “I think your initial instincts were correct. I think Annabelle killed Kristi.” He rubbed the back of Gracie’s head and sighed. “Unfortunately, now that her husband has been cleared, we still don’t have a clue who killed Annabelle.”

  “Nope.” Then I remembered. I jumped up, opened the junk drawer in my kitchen, and began searching through it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find the notebook I used when I interviewed Annabelle’s family.” I shoved aside the latest grocery store ads and takeout menus. “Ah, here it is.” I pulled out the skinny notebook and began flipping through it, searching for the right page. “Tavish, did you ever meet any of Annabelle’s friends or family at your signings?”

  He thought for a moment. “Not that I recall. I think she was always on her own.”

  I consulted my notes. “Turns out Harley Cooke’s younger sister is the one who first loved your books. She took her sister-in-law Annabelle along to your Chicago book signing two years ago. That was the first time Annabelle met you.” I raised
my head. “Does the name Jewel ring a bell?”

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “I meet so many people at signings, they all start to run together after a while.”

  “Unless,” I said, “they do something that makes them stand out from the crowd.”

  “Like showing up at every signing wearing bright pink and proceeding to make a spectacle of themselves.”

  “Exactly.” I tapped my fingers on the notebook. “So we need to find out what kind of person this Jewel is and how she felt about her sister-in-law bulldozing in and co-opting her favorite author.” I expelled a sigh. “This may require a return trip to Calumet City and another meeting with Annabelle’s husband.” I shuddered, remembering the odious Harley.

  “That seems a bit farfetched,” Tavish said. “Don’t you think? Just because Annabelle’s sister-in-law also liked my books, that would be no reason to kill her for turning into my biggest fan and a crazy stalker.”

  “You may be right.” I puffed out another sigh. “I’m just trying to figure this out. I was sure Harley killed his wife—especially after meeting him. He certainly didn’t shed any tears over Annabelle’s demise. But then again, neither did her parents.” Poor, unloved Annabelle. Who would have wanted to kill her? And with my scarf, no less? It didn’t make sense. And it sure didn’t look good for me. “But if nothing else, maybe Jewel can tell us more about Annabelle than Harley and the Grubbs did.” I really needed to figure this out to save my career.

  “I suppose, rather than a Wisconsin getaway, we could take a quick Illinois getaway instead.” Tavish inclined his head toward me. “If you can afford the time away.”

  “I knew I hurt your feelings.” I laid my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I would really love to go away with you for a couple days, but I heard from my—”

  My phone blared out Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” “Sorry,” I said, “that’s Brady. I should probably get it in case he has some news.”

  Tavish nodded.

  “Hey, Brady, what’s up?”

  “Is Tavish still there with you?”

  “Yep. He’s right here.”

  Brady grunted. “Can you ask him to please check his phone? I’ve been trying to reach him.”

  “Okay. Anything wrong?”

  “Just have him get back to me, Ted,” he said curtly. “Gotta go.” Brady hung up.

  I stared at the phone in my hand.

  “What was that all about?” Tavish asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Brady said he’s been trying to reach you. Asked you to check your phone.”

  “Oh, bugger. I set it on mute when I arrived so it wouldn’t interrupt our meal.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I neglected to turn it back on afterwards.” Tavish scrolled through his texts. His face closed off as he tapped out a reply. “Right. I need to go to the sheriff’s office straightaway.”

  “How come?”

  “Brady wants to continue the questioning he started before Harley Cooke was arrested.”

  * * *

  Gracie nosed my hand. Where’d he go, Mom? Is he coming back? I like him.

  “I like him too, Gracie-girl.” I stroked her fur absently as I considered Brady’s summons. Of course he would call Tavish back in for questioning. With Harley cleared for Annabelle’s murder, there weren’t many other suspects in the running. Besides Tavish and me, that is, and we were both innocent. I knew that. Now I just had to prove it. For both our sakes.

  The place to start was Jewel, Annabelle’s sister-in-law. Although the easiest way to locate her would be through her brother Harley, I would prefer never to have to interact with that Neanderthal again. Instead, I did a search on my laptop for Jewel Cooke in Calumet City. Nada. Three Jewels popped up, but their last names were Lane, Johnson, and Murphy. I searched the greater Chicago area. Twenty-one Jewels surfaced, but none with the last name Cooke.

  Use the little gray cells, my inner Poirot suggested. She doesn’t have to have the same last name as her brother.

  Doh. I pulled out the burner phone I use for all my research—I value my privacy and another author friend suggested it as a reader buffer—and called Jewel Johnson first.

  “Hello?” a thin voice quavered on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, is this Jewel Johnson?”

  “Ye-e-es, but I’m not buying anything from telemarketers anymore. My son made me promise.”

  Son? Sounds too old to be Harley’s sister, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “No problem,” I said quickly. “I’m not selling anything. Just doing a brief survey for our publishing company to find out the top authors people are reading today. May I ask who your favorite author is, please?”

  “Well, I don’t read as much as I used to—my eyes aren’t so good anymore—but I always liked that lady who wrote those country romances. The ones with girls in bonnets on the front. Those were some sweet stories. You know the ones I mean?”

  Unfortunately. After reading the single Amish fiction title Bea Andersen had pressed on me a few years ago, I’d had to down two cups of strong black coffee to cut the sugar.

  The next Jewel preferred vampire novels. The sparkly kind.

  Two down, one to go. I tapped in Jewel Murphy’s number. “Hi,” I blurted out when she picked up. “I’m not a robocall or telemarketer. I’m surveying readers to find out their favorite authors for a list our publishing house is compiling.”

  “That’s cool,” the youngish voice replied. “Go for it. I’m at work and bored.”

  Since this was the final Jewel in Annabelle’s hometown, I crossed my fingers she would be Harley’s sister. I did not relish spending my limited time calling all twenty-one Jewels in and around Chicago—not with needing to finish up A Dash of Death. To be sure, however, I added a couple more questions to the mix. “Great. For survey purposes, would you mind telling me your age, profession, and how many are in your household?”

  “Twenty-seven,” she said. “I work in a comic book shop, and usually my household is just me and my cat—which is how I like it—but recently my stupid brother and his pregnant girlfriend moved in.”

  Yes! I did an internal fist pump.

  “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “Tell me about it.” I could hear her slurping a drink. “The idiot got kicked out of his old place and they didn’t have anywhere else to go, so baby sister had to step up. Like always,” she muttered, sotto voce. “I told them they could stay a month, tops, but then they’re outa here.”

  “What’s that old saying,” I said, “‘Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days’?”

  Jewel snorted. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that—’specially if Harley’s girlfriend keeps puking in my bathroom every morning and not cleaning up after herself.”

  My stomach roiled. “That’s gross. Maybe her baby daddy should step up to the plate.”

  “Right? That’s what I told him, but my brother’s from another generation and totally sexist, so that’s not happening.” She slurped more of her drink. “So, what’d you wanna ask me about books?”

  “Sorry, got sidetracked. Who would you say are your top three favorite authors?”

  “James Patterson, Stieg Larsson, and Harlan Coben,” she rattled off.

  “Ah, you like suspense—is that your preferred genre?”

  “For sure. I like stories with action and excitement.” She released a sound that came off as a cross between a snort and a grunt. “The only excitement I’m going to get in this backwater burg.”

  “What about Tavish Bentley? His stories have plenty of action and excitement.”

  “Nah.” Her voice went flat. “I used to read him, but not anymore.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I lost interest and moved on.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Silence.

  Oops, may have overplayed your hand.

  “Who did you say you were again?” Jewel Murphy ask
ed.

  “My name’s Olivia. I’m with a small publishing house that’s expanding. We’re doing market research to find out what are the most popular genres, and authors, among readers.”

  “Is Tavish Bentley one of your authors?” she asked. I heard the suspicion in her voice. “You seem really interested in him.”

  “Oh no, goodness me.” I tinkled out a fake laugh. “He’s much too big for our little house. If one of our editors could snag him, though, that would be quite a coup—to get an author of his caliber. He’s got quite a following.”

  “I guess. I don’t really pay attention.”

  “His newest book, Her Blood Weeps, is flying off the shelves and has already made it onto the New York Times best-seller list.”

  “Sounds like you’re a big fan.”

  “Not as big as that lady who stalked him—the one who was recently killed.” I adopted an innocent tone. “Annabelle Cooke? Isn’t she from your town?”

  “That does it,” Jewel yelled. “Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle! I’m sick of hearing her name. I’ve got nothing to say about my dead stalker sister-in-law, and you damn reporters need to leave me the hell alone!” She hung up.

  Mission more than accomplished. I’d found Harley’s younger sister, who clearly had issues with both her brother and Annabelle. I also knew she worked in a comics shop. There couldn’t be too many of those in Calumet City. Once I pinpointed the location, I could pay her a visit—in disguise, of course—and try to find out if she might be a likely murder suspect. This time, however, I would take along one of the Musketeers for backup.

  The burner phone in my hand rang, and the number I had just called flashed on the screen. I let it go to voice mail. The voicemail without my name. All Jewel Murphy would hear as she listened to the recorded message would be a bland recording of the burner phone number in my voice.

  Maybe that would ease her suspicions and give me a reprieve when I followed up in person. I would have to adopt a different persona, however. What that would be, I had no idea yet, but since lying was not my first language, probably best not to make it too farfetched or I would trip myself up. I tucked the burner phone away and picked up my cell to text Char. That’s when I saw the old text she had sent the last time I went undercover to Calumet City, a text I’d overlooked in all the excitement of that day. Guess what? I found someone who has it in for Tavish. Call me.