Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  After he came out of the booth.

  Because maybe the sweater had blood on it.

  The phone rang, the jingle of an outside call. Thomas would have answered it if he had been here.

  “Griffin,” I said.

  “Love to chat with you about your . . . idea.” Ms. S did not identify herself, apparently assuming I’d recognize her voice. “Let’s meet somewhere private? It would have to be very secret, of course. Since what we’re discussing—the, well, you were so right about what happened. Only you know about it, correct?”

  “Oh, correct,” I assured her. “I didn’t breathe a word.”

  “Good.” She named a little park north of town. “See you there in thirty minutes. And come alone.”

  “Of course,” I said. And hung up.

  And then I did what Nancy never does. I called the police.

  EPILOGUE

  I probably wasn’t cut out to be a security guard anyway. The failure at the Nancy Drew convention concerned me. I mean, it had resulted in a death. Not my fault, but it haunted me. And even more proof I wasn’t right for the job: I’d been so blazingly wrong about what had happened.

  Wrong because after I called the police, they surreptitiously accompanied me to the clandestine meeting. And who arrived at the park?

  Not Ms. S herself, no surprise, but a slim brunette. Still in her leopard pencil skirt. Ned accompanied her. Again with his gun. Again, pointed at me.

  In movies someone always explains the whole story right then, in the midst of the confrontation, but not this time. This time the cops leaped out, nabbed them both, and hauled them away. And—because as Nancy says, “Everything is evidence”—the district attorney is using my video in court.

  But I didn’t find out about the rest of the story. The police did. I mean, they’re cops.

  Anyway, my whole manuscript-for-ransom scheme, while a cool idea, was incredibly wrong. Aliana Kemper-Julian had not been about to reveal the new Nancy. She’d been about to debunk it. As phony.

  When she’d threatened to reveal the Book 61 ruse to the convention, Ms. S and William regrouped, went for “coffee,” and called in their muscle, Ned, and secretary Cora as their costumed Nancy. The two went into the curtained booth. Ned killed Debunker Nancy and ducked out. But I showed up before Cora could get away.

  William (Not-Ned) was the first to rat. He admitted he and Ms. S had switched to Plan B when Debunker Nancy threatened to ruin their plans. Once she was dealt with, they’d report the manuscript as missing, figuring they’d make out like a bandit on the insurance money.

  Win-win. Except for that dead person thing. I’d noticed Ms. S and William being “conspiratorial.” At least I was right about that.

  They’d used me as their credibility. If all had gone as planned, hiring me would be proof they’d been concerned about their valuable manuscript. When things went bad, they’d been clever enough to use me another way. As their ploy. All the while they were “interrogating” me, they were actually stalling. To let their Nancy escape with the now-burned phony manuscript.

  Drives me crazy. I mean, I’d asked them: Why are you letting her get away? They never answered because, of course, the real reason was: we want her to get away.

  Ms. S, sidekick William, Cora, and Ned are now behind bars, awaiting trial for conspiracy and murder and a whole bunch of other stuff.

  But I was so bummed about my mistake and my inadvertent role in this thing that I decided to call it quits as a security guard and move on to my new life.

  As a writer.

  Now I can still get involved in murder cases, but the victim won’t be real. And my invisible-me-ness is invaluable in my new career. Like I said at the beginning, I could be sitting right next to you on the subway or standing behind you in the grocery store line or waiting for my latte while you get your tea. You’d never notice me, and that’s exactly how I like it.

  WICKED WRITERS, by Frances McNamara

  “I looked up the entrée, and it’s six points if you skip the rolls and dessert.”

  More dieting advice. Lucy O’Donnell attempted to ignore the drone of her older sister Norah’s voice as she entered the hotel ballroom. She was searching for her sister’s good friend Catriona Cantwell, who was hosting the table they were assigned to. Some men and a lot of women were pouring in, swarming the round tables set for lunch. She assumed that most of them were the wicked writers mentioned in the name of the Wicked Writers Conference held annually in Warwick, Rhode Island. Apparently the one-day feast of blood and gore attracted like-minded ghouls from all over New England. She counted an awful lot of gray hairs on the sea of bobbing heads. It made her uneasy. They needed some new blood in this group.

  Lucy herself had just retired after thirty-five years on the Boston police force. A final assignment that involved human trafficking of young women had convinced her it was time to go. There came a time when she had seen enough of man’s inhumanity to man, or in that case woman, to give up trying to be the one to fix things. But ever since she woke up with no shift on the schedule, she felt like she had stepped off a cliff and was falling into a black gulf of emptiness. And she had been gaining weight. So her sister put her on a diet and arranged for her to speak on a panel about what it was really like to be in law enforcement. Not all of Norah’s ideas were bad ones. The panel had been easy duty. It included a former DA and a current member of the sheriff’s office. Each of them told a couple of colorful stories and, before you knew it, they adjourned for lunch. If only Norah would stop harping on the diet.

  Lucy was sandwiched between her sister on her right and Catriona on her left. Cat was a local pharmacist who had made her name as the Poison Guru by lecturing at mystery conferences about how to use poisons to kill fictional victims. She was the one who got Norah involved in the conference. A great reader, Norah had never put pen to paper herself but she enjoyed hobnobbing with the authors and experts. As a well-known speaker, Cat had been asked to host a table that would include the authors nominated for best first mystery novel. She had asked Lucy and Norah to help fill out the table.

  “Lucy, here’s Molly Keane,” Norah told her. Lucy nodded at the trim, gray-haired woman who waved while heading toward them. “Molly’s got twenty books in her garden mystery series.” The prolific author was surely not one of the nominees who would be seated with them. She was a good friend of Cat and Norah, who had been talking about the hellish divorce Molly was going through on the drive over that morning.

  “I enjoyed your panel on the real challenges of law enforcement,” Molly said. “Thank you so much for coming. It’s so helpful to get the information so we don’t make mistakes and embarrass ourselves.”

  “Glad to do it.”

  “Speaking of accuracy,” Cat interrupted, “I looked it up for you, and I believe aconite will do what you need to do.” Cat turned to me. “With so many books involving gardens, Molly is always searching for new ways to do someone in—ones that she hasn’t already used.”

  “And Cat always comes through with good suggestions. That’s why she’s our resident expert. I don’t know what we’d do without her.” Molly suddenly stiffened. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go sit with my editor over there.” The woman made a quick exit, and Lucy turned to see what had driven her away. Behind them, a short man with a beer belly under a sport coat and a felt fedora tilted over one eye toddled toward her with two bottles of Sam Adams in his hands.

  “Captain O’Donnell, join me, won’t you?” he said to Lucy. “I was glad to hear you’d be at our table, so I made a visit to the bar before coming in here to join the old biddies. You’ll need it with this group. Take it from me, a little alcohol helps to make the rubber chicken go down.” He was sneering. But he had extended a hand with one of the bottles. Apparently he considered Lucy some kind of kindred spirit.

  Lucy sensed her sister and Cat bridle, and she u
nderstood why Molly had left so suddenly. This had to be Jake Keane, the husband Molly was divorcing. Unlike his wife, who wrote what were called “cozies,” where there was as little blood and gore as possible, Jake wrote about a hard-core, tough-as-nails private investigator. Apparently he had started writing years after his wife’s books became a financial success, and his work wasn’t up to snuff as far as Cat and Norah were concerned. But then his book was up for best first novel this year, so that opinion clearly wasn’t shared by everyone.

  Since Molly had already left, and the beer was extended to her, Lucy accepted it. Even if the guy was a louse, she liked the idea of a beer to go along with the meal. A beer at lunch was one of the perks of retirement as far as she was concerned. Jake Keane then promptly grabbed the seat beside an outraged Norah. He was trailed by a sassy blonde trying to stave off forty, who was introduced as Lorna Lisbon. Apparently she was trying to sell her first novel about a sassy blonde who kicked ass in an unlikely manner. While Jake began a monologue full of advice on getting published, another finalist for best first novel, a younger woman named Suzie Lu, sat at the table. She had stunning hair, straight, black as night, hanging down to the middle of her back. Her book was a police procedural about an Asian American detective. Two other first-time novelists were introduced, a long-haired young woman with thick glasses and a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket. Neither of them could get a word in edgewise once Jake started talking.

  Lucy sipped her beer as she listened to Jake monopolize the conversation. He attempted to align himself with her as if they were the only ones who knew the reality of the “mean streets.” She said nothing, but wondered why these sorry little men, who only ever took on someone weaker or who couldn’t hit back, were the ones who always wanted so badly to appear tough. Tough, as if that consisted of four-letter words and heavy drinking. The toughest guys she knew were soft-spoken and had a sense of humor. A powderpuff like Jake would be subdued by the flick of a wrist of one of those really tough men. Yet it was the Jakes who talked big and even struck out at the helpless. Like his wife. Jake had abused Molly mentally for years, Cat had said that morning. It was only when he began hitting her that she finally left him a few months back. Norah and Cat were thrilled Molly was finally standing up for herself but also outraged because Jake was trying to take the house they shared as part of the divorce settlement, the house where Molly had invested years of work on the garden she loved so much.

  Lucy had murmured sympathy at this story on the ride over. But she’d kept mum about the similarity between Molly’s and Cat’s marriages because Cat had never told Norah her sad secrets. Norah didn’t know about the times Cat had called Lucy to come and intervene when her now late husband had attacked her in a drunken rage. She’d been too embarrassed to tell her old friend, and Lucy had always respected her privacy. At least that was over now. The previous year, Cat’s husband had been stung to death by bees—he’d been extremely allergic. With her background in pharmaceuticals, Cat might have been suspected of having a hand in the death but, luckily, she was traveling with Norah and Norah’s wonderfully gentlemanlike husband at the time. Lucy could certainly see why Cat was not happy about having Jake at her table. But since he was a nominee, she had no choice.

  When Jake finally took a break to sip from his bottle, Norah took up the conversation. “So, congratulations to all of you for being nominated for best first novel this year.” Lucy thought this was a subtle poke at Jake, reminding him that despite his pontifications he was only a first-time novelist. The other nominees smiled and nodded their thanks. Jake raised his beer bottle.

  “Thank you, I am so honored to be named.” Suzie displayed the mechanical smile and polite demeanor of a well brought up Chinese woman. Lucy was reminded of her favorite laboratory techie, another well-mannered Asian American with sharp, dark humor. Lucy had learned not to underestimate what could be going on beneath her smiling veneer.

  “Yeah, good first effort, kid,” Jake said, clearly resenting no longer being the center of the conversation. “There’s something you need to do, though. Go out and really listen to what happens on the streets. Now, what I did to really get into it, was a ride-along. You need to do that. We had a great time. There were these two cops...” He hogged the conversation again with anecdotes about a couple of nights he spent in a squad car in Newton, a nice suburb of Boston. Lucy hid a smile thinking of the stories the cops probably told about the obnoxious would-be writer who rode along with them. Most cops were pretty skeptical about that sort of thing, even cops from Newton. Boston guys could be downright rude, she knew. When Jake advised Suzie to get Lucy to find her a ride-along, the retired policewoman nearly choked on her beer.

  “Thank you, but I have a cousin who is on the Boston police force and I use him as a consultant.” Suzie mentioned a name Lucy recognized. Her cousin was a homicide detective who specialized in human trafficking. With contacts like that, Suzie didn’t need her help. She noticed that the young woman’s face was unreadable as Jake continued to criticize her work and offer his profoundly ignorant advice. Lucy had not read the books by either author, but she hoped Suzie would be the one to win the award.

  Meanwhile, the waitresses were starting to set plates of food in front of everyone. Earlier, Norah had grabbed the basket of rolls away from Lucy and passed it on to others whispering about how many points were involved. Now, Lucy looked at the plates of salmon, salad, and a few sliced potatoes with a sigh. Jake grinned at her, and he grabbed the arm of his waitress. He was ordering more beer for Lucy and himself.

  Lorna, on his other side, attempted to get his attention while he did this. She was pointing at her empty glass that had held a martini or cosmopolitan or some such high-octane drink, but Jake ignored her, brushing off her hand. If she wanted a refill, it seemed she’d have to order it herself. The others were passing the salad dressing (Norah snatched it away from Lucy, too many calories) and making polite conversation.

  “Where’s the salt?” Jake demanded.

  “Now, darlin’, you know that’s not good for your blood pressure,” Lorna told him. He glared at her. Suzie reached for the salt and pepper shakers in front of her and handed them across to the little man without comment. “You’ll be sorry, hon.” Lorna turned to the rest of us, rolling her eyes. “Between the salt and the sweet tooth, you are heading for a coronary, Jake.”

  He ignored her, emptying half the salt shaker on his chicken breast entrée. When Lorna patted his arm in a proprietary manner, he flinched.

  “What kind of mystery do you write?” Lucy asked her. The beer arrived and she accepted hers. She turned toward Lorna to avoid Norah’s glare.

  Lorna ordered another appletini and put down her fork after a desultory investigation of the food on her plate. Lucy guessed her trade-off for keeping a slim figure was alcohol instead of solid food. “I’ve written a modern thriller about a sexy young woman scientist who finds out about a global conspiracy during a field trip to the Amazon. She gets chased by thugs hired by a multinational conglomerate that wants to steal the formula she developed.”

  “Very interesting,” Lucy replied. The others were diligently attacking their food. She assumed Lorna didn’t need a ride-along with local cops to fill out her novel. It was unlikely any of them would have relevant experience. She pictured introducing Lorna in her three-inch heels to a squad assigned to Roxbury. The thought boggled her mind. She was grateful for the beer.

  “Jakey thinks it’s good, don’t you, honey? He’s going to give it to his editor at Black Door books for me.” She beamed.

  “I didn’t say I’d do that,” he objected.

  “Why yes, you did. Don’t you go tryin’ to back out now,” she scolded him. The rest of the table tried to ignore their bickering as they cleaned their plates.

  After the plates were swept away, the conference chair went to the podium and began to make announcements in preparation for the award ceremony. Lucy saw Molly
Keane, who was seated at another table, staring at her soon to be ex-husband and his blond companion with a look almost of sorrow. Having had enough experience with the man to consider him a complete loser, Lucy had to restrain herself from shaking her head. Like other women Lucy had heard of, Molly had stayed with her abuser for over twenty-five years without even having children. And even when she was finally free, she couldn’t quite let go and stop caring.

  As the waitress removed the dinner plates, Cat pulled out a plastic container of special desserts. In addition to being a pharmacist, she was a very accomplished baker, so she had prepared cupcakes for each of the nominees with initials of their main characters and a candle for the first birthday of each, wishing each of the authors many more years with novels about their characters. It was a typically thoughtful gesture.

  Norah waved away the dessert of plainly frosted ones for herself and Lucy, only allowing coffee. Jake snorted at the good wishes, but he wolfed his cupcake down, then ate the one Lorna pushed away. They were getting ready to start the awards with the one for best first novel so the table came to attention. While the presenter was being introduced, Cat pushed away her own chocolate cupcake, offering it to anyone else at the table who might want it. Lucy was tempted. While it wasn’t anything extraordinary, just a chocolate one with a pink frosting and white sprinkles, still it would go well with the black coffee. She could feel Norah staring at her, willing her not to reach for it, but, after all, what did it matter if she was a few points over the limit? It wasn’t like she was going to need to chase down runaway suspects or anything. Not ever. Not anymore. But before she could give in, Jake Keane reached across and pulled the plate toward him. Saved by the glutton. Lucy sipped her coffee and heard the announcement.