by Becky Clark
“Just take the one on top.”
Suzanne reminded me of those elderly British ladies putting poison in one cup of tea. “This one’s for you, love. That’s it, have a nice cuppa and a biscuit,” one would offer sweetly. “No, not that one,” the other would say, rotating the handle toward their victim. “This one’s for you, innit?” It would look just like the other cup except for some barely noticeable sign you’d only see if you knew what to look for, like a sheen across the tea, or a few seemingly innocent sugar crystals on the rim.
“I don’t need anything, Suzanne. And it’s not anywhere near my birthday.”
“Oh, for the love of—” She juggled the box and pulled open the flaps. It hadn’t even been sealed, but that didn’t matter. It could still be booby-trapped.
She shoved the box toward me and I saw three books sliding around. She shoved it again, right into my belly. I reacted by pulling out the stack of books. What can I say? Books of any kind are irresistible and almost never armed with a detonator.
I held the books in one hand, shuffling through them as I read the titles. “How to Murder Your Darlings. The Handbook of Poisons, Potions, and Premeditation. Deadly Secrets of Deadly Women.”
I glanced up at her. She was holding the empty box and grinning with those nonexistent lips. How have I never noticed that creepy shark smile before?
“This one’s for you,” she said, plucking How to Murder Your Darlings from my hands. “It’s not about murder at all. It’s about editing. Specifically, how to remove passages that don’t fit your story, even if you love them. I thought you could use it.”
I didn’t know whether to be glad she wasn’t here to murder me or upset that she felt so strongly I needed a book about editing. I decided to be glad I wasn’t murdered.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a murderer.
I closed the door after Suzanne and felt sorry for myself for the next three and a half hours. Not in a row, of course. Some of the time was spent being angry at Ozzi and being scared and paranoid about whoever was trying to frame me. It all looked the same, though: me curled up on the couch watching a Psych marathon; empty chocolate chunk ice cream container on the coffee table; floor littered with tissues.
Geez. What a girl.
At a little after six, I heard Ozzi’s familiar honk, like always, like nothing had happened. Ten minutes later, he used his special knock on my door. I ignored him.
“Charlee, open the door.”
“No. Go away.”
Silence. He went away? Just like that?
My phone chirped that I had a text message. Ozzi. I peeked out and saw him leaning on the railing looking at his phone.
Are you okay? I’m here to apologize.
I typed, You said I was ridiculous.
I’M the ridiculous one. Let me take you to dinner. We can talk.
My stomach rumbled but I typed, No. Still angry.
I heard a quiet thud. I used the peephole and saw he was leaning with his back on my apartment door.
Please? I’m really good at apologizing.
I leaned with my back to the door. We were six inches away but miles apart.
I need some time. Lots going on. I’m not giving up. Call me.
I didn’t reply, just kept leaning against the door, phone pressed to my heart. I jumped when it rang. I thought it would be Ozzi not giving up, but it was AmyJo. “Hey, Ames.”
“How are you? I’ve been calling and calling.”
“I know.” I crossed to the couch and curled into the corner. “I’m pretending none of this happened.”
“The cops questioned me.”
I dug the remote from the couch cushion and muted the TV, feeling a stab of guilt for implicating her in this mess.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“At this moment, I’m—”
“About Melinda.”
“My plan is to lay low and stay home until they find Melinda’s killer. That’ll keep me safe if there’s a lunatic after me, too.”
“And the police might forget you’re a suspect.”
“Not sure that’s how they work, but sure, out of sight, out of mind might be in their procedures manual.”
“What if they never catch the murderer?” AmyJo said. “There are a lot of cold cases out there.”
“Gee. Thanks for bringing that up.”
“Like you never thought about it.”
She was right. I’d been thinking about it constantly. “Yeah, but—”
“Oh, shoot, Charlee. I’ve got to go. But is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything? More ice cream?”
My eyes drifted to the empty half-gallon container on the coffee table. “How did you know I ate all my ice cream?”
“Oh, please. I’ve never seen you go through a crisis without some chocolate chunk. I know you better than you know yourself. Call me if you need anything.”
After AmyJo disconnected, I sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped, elbows on knees. I knew I’d feel better if I wrote. I shut off the TV and padded down the hall to the extra bedroom that served as my office.
At my desk, the light from my MacBook pulsated gently, like an electronic finger beckoning. I lifted the lid and sat before it, waiting for my muse.
While I waited, I scrolled through the last few pages of the new mystery I’d started writing. Lots of writers take time off between completing one manuscript and beginning another, but I was firmly in the camp that believed in diving right into something new. After all, the best way to sell more books was to write more books. Which was also much more fun. Plus, I knew how to do it.
Geez, I hoped I knew how to do it. I reread the section I’d intended to submit to my writing group at the aborted meeting on Monday, but now, on Tuesday, a lifetime later, it wasn’t speaking to me.
And my muse was off in the corner, filing her nails or something, completely oblivious to my need.
I didn’t really believe in muses, but the imagery was so delicious. Some nebulous being who whispered in your ear, guiding your thoughts, helping create heavenly manuscripts. But they didn’t always show up, even when invited. Instead, I believed in sitting in my chair every day. I believed in putting my hands on the keyboard and typing. My muse is BICHOK—butt in chair, hands on keyboard. No luck, no magic, just effort.
Of course, you have to know what you’re doing. And at that moment I did not. Again, I read the pages I’d wanted my critique group to comment on. How could I write another murder mystery when the last one had ramifications far beyond entertaining someone for a few hours? How could I throw yet more violence into the world? How could I stomach what some sicko did with my words, my imagination?
I closed the document and stared at the folder on my screen. All my research. My entire outline. 13,462 words.
Click. The folder lit up. I dragged it toward the desktop trash can, finally dropping it in. I emptied the trash for good measure, the sucking thwack noise both terrifying and satisfying.
I opened a new document. No more mysteries. No more death and dying. I was branching out.
I thought about AmyJo. I read her angsty young adult stuff all the time. I could do that. My protagonist would be a high school girl with cancer—no, John Green already did that. Maybe a high school boy with cancer. No, a loser high school boy whose younger sister gets cancer and he must get his shit together in the three weeks before graduation to help his entire family cope with the situation. I started typing. But it turned out she didn’t have cancer at all. Instead, she was being slowly poisoned by their parents who wanted to cash in her life insurance money and jet off to live on the beach in Belize and drink mai tais all day without the constant grind of raising kids. So he turned the tables on them, gave them the rest of the poison, and watched as they melted from the inside out, right there on the kitchen floor.
I dragged the pages to the trash and opened a new blank document. A picture book, perhaps. Something in the style of Beatrix Potter.
&n
bsp; A sweet little bunny in a blue jacket. I had him frolicking in the farmer’s field, nibbling carrots and making a nuisance of himself, always one step ahead of the frustrated farmer. Then BLAMMO. The farmer blasted him to smithereens, fricassee raining down on the heads of his brothers and his sweet, patient mother. “That’s what you get for not controlling your child,” shouted the farmer, not caring one whit about the blotches of bunny fur and entrails dripping from Mommy Bunny’s little paisley bonnet.
Delete. I’d try my hand at writing romance. Maybe I could write myself over this fight with Ozzi.
I thought about the few romances I’d read. I knew the rules. Parallel stories of a star-crossed couple. They have a meet-cute, they’re kept apart, they finally get together when one or both of them realizes they’re meant to be happily ever after. Not something I necessarily subscribed to in real life, but, hey, anything goes in fiction, right?
I began writing about a darling fourth grade teacher and a hunky construction worker, both from central casting, at least until my first revision. He shows up for a parent-teacher conference, but she thinks he’s there to fix the broken door in her classroom. Because she’s darling, and he’s good-natured with a mischievous grin—and did I mention hunky?—he fixes the door. Just when he finishes, the janitor walks in to do the repairs. The darling teacher with the single dimple realizes she was just cutely met, reaches into her purse for her concealed pearl-handled snubnose, aims it, and pierces the hunk cleanly between the eyes. He crumples to the floor, blood pooling around his head. She has a moment of remorse, because she is a darling elementary school teacher, after all. But she doesn’t like to be made to look foolish. And now the janitor has so much more work to do.
I reread it. Shook my head. Poetry. I’d try that.
There once was a Reaper quite grim
Who stalked hatted men on a whim
When hit with a bat,
That head it went splat
And filled his beret to the brim.
Nope.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Dost thou hear the buzz of the bee, merrily alive,
Industrious?
Dost thou see the stinger, menacing closer,
Closer
Closer?
Piercing the sweet, delicate flesh of milady’s
Red, rosebud lips
Pumping venom
Over and
Over and
Over again
Until nigh upon daybreak whence macabre
Death takes her
Closer
Closer
Closer.
I rubbed my eyes and turned on some lights. It was late, but I wasn’t tired. Or maybe I was too tired. I shut the lid of my computer, remembering the write what you know conversation. Did I only know murder? Was that always where my brain scuttled? Were mysteries all I knew how to write?
If so, then I had to figure out who killed Melinda so I could get back to it. And maybe solving Melinda’s murder would be a better tribute for her loved ones than simply sending flowers and a card.
Seven
I stayed up the rest of the night studying my list of suspects and their possible motives.
Seventeen names. Fourteen of them people I knew. Spent time with. Shared secrets with. Slept with. My mind skittered and leaped, confused yet growing angrier by the minute. One of them must be a cold-blooded killer.
I still couldn’t believe I might know a murderer, but why else would Melinda have been killed exactly as I detailed it? Mercury poisoning is pretty unique, if I do say so myself, reddening at my misplaced pride.
I doodled a fat blue question mark in the margin of the page, coloring it in with harsh, angry strokes. I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyelids and took a deep breath. I arched my back to work out a kink, then tapped my pen on every name, returning to the top of the list. Again. Again. Again.
By the time the sun came up I had a plan.
After a long, hot shower and an unsatisfying breakfast of Cheetos and a protein bar, I shoved my suspect list into my bag and drove to Dunphy’s Auto Repair. I hoped it was the place Melinda used. If it wasn’t, I had three more possibilities. An internet search showed that Dunphy’s was about equidistant between her office and her home. And classic cars were listed as their specialty.
I parked on the street and walked up to the driveway of the business just as a man in dress slacks and a leather jacket swung open a chain-link gate and latched it on the right. He greeted me with a wave. “Car acting up?” He swung the left side open and latched it. Behind him, mechanics in blue-and-white-striped coveralls scurried around the lot and service bays.
“No,” I said. “I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
“About your car?” The man eyed my Kia at the curb. The rising sun highlighted the filth. “We only work on classic cars here, ma’am.”
Ma’am. Ouch.
One of the mechanics revved an engine nearby, so I raised my voice. “Not about my car. But do you happen to know if you service Melinda Walter’s car here?” The revving stopped halfway through the sentence so her name hung heavy over the parking lot.
The man turned his head toward the service bays. I saw one of the mechanics give an almost imperceptible nod and then scurry away. “Why do you ask?”
I pointed at the mechanic. “Is that Joaquin?”
“Are you a cop?” He started walking toward my car, but I didn’t follow so he turned back. Now my back was to the service bays instead of his. I could see him glancing nervously behind me and I made a quarter turn.
“I’m not a cop, and I’m not with Immigration. I’m a friend of Melinda’s. I might have left something on her backseat when she had her car serviced recently.”
“Her car isn’t here. I can’t help you.” Again, he walked toward my car. Again, I stayed put.
He returned and spoke quietly. “If you’re a reporter, I’d like you to leave the premises now. I have nothing to say.”
“Why do you think I’m a reporter?”
He gestured at my bag, where my yellow notebook was sticking out.
“I’m not a reporter. Like I said, I’m a friend of Melinda’s.”
He sized me up. “You may not be a reporter, but you must not know Melinda or you’d know she died recently.”
“I’m aware. I’m also aware her car malfunctioned and your mechanic Joaquin was the last person to work on it.”
We stared at each other. I was ready to scream and run if I needed to. But he looked the same way I felt. His face was taut and pinched without much color. Clearly, I was making him nervous.
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but if you think Joaquin or any of my mechanics did something to sabotage her car, well, I can assure you that would never happen. I run a professional business and we do quality work here. We’ve never had an incident like you’re describing, and Joaquin—all my guys—are excellent mechanics and upstanding citizens.”
“I’m sure they are. Look, I’m not here to make trouble. I just need some information. I’m not a cop. I’m not a reporter. I’m just a novelist trying to find my manuscript and maybe figure out some things about Melinda.” The butterflies in my stomach multiplied and took flight. I balled my fists in my coat pockets while he stared at me.
Finally, he sighed. “Let’s go inside. I need some coffee. Want some?”
Like I wanted oxygen. “Yes, please.”
We crossed the parking lot into the office, furtively stared at by four or five mechanics pretending to be busy.
After he ushered me to a chair, closed the door, and handed me a steaming cup, he sat behind his desk. He sipped his coffee, staring at me over the rim. “So. You think we stole something from you out of Ms. Walter’s car. What’s your game? Blackmail? Phony insurance claim? With her gone, trying to make it a case of he said, she said?”
“What? No!” My coffee sloshed in my trembling hand and I placed the cup on his desk. I had to nudge aside a namep
late that read Bob Dunphy. “Let me start over, Mr. Dunphy. My understanding is that Joaquin worked on Melinda’s car in the last few weeks.” He nodded. “Melinda was my literary agent and she had one of my new manuscripts in her possession. I’m trying to determine if one of your mechanics—Joaquin, perhaps—might have pulled it out of the car. Maybe read it?”
All the tension left Dunphy’s face and he smiled. “Well, first off, Joaquin is the only one who Ms. Walter allowed to touch her car, so there’d be no other mechanics involved.”
“Are you sure nobody else would work on her car?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you knew Ms. Walter. Do you really think one of my guys would do something against her wishes? They’re not stupid. They wouldn’t have wanted to take that risk. Ms. Walter was … demanding, as I’m sure you knew.”
I nodded. “Yes, she was … demanding.”
“I don’t want to talk ill about the dead, but Joaquin actually drew the short straw. He seemed to have a way with her, though.”
Like a snake charmer, perhaps. “That may be, but isn’t it possible he could have read the manuscript?”
“Nope.” Seeing my skepticism, he pushed a button on his intercom and spoke in Spanish.
I heard the tinny echo of his voice in the adjoining garage. It didn’t take long before a muscular Hispanic man, maybe forty-ish, opened the office door. Dunphy waved him in and motioned me to speak to him.
“Joaquin, my name is Charlemagne Russo. I wanted to ask, the last time you worked on Melinda Walter’s car, did you find a manuscript on the back seat?”
The mechanic rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Cómo?”
“It was a stack of papers about this big”—I spread my thumb and forefinger about two inches apart—“with a big black binder clip at the top.”
Joaquin looked at me, then at Dunphy, who rummaged in his desk and pulled one out. Dunphy spoke in Spanish and I hoped he was translating what I said.