Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  When Barb opened it, I asked, “Did either of you come down to get Peter out of the bushes today?”

  Barb frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so, dear.” Turning into the apartment, she called, “Don? Did you go down for Peter today?”

  I heard him say he hadn’t.

  “I don’t think Peter’s been out since you brought him back earlier. Which reminds me, he might want to go out now.” Again, Barb faced the interior of the apartment. “Peter, do you need to go out?”

  I stepped forward in time to see Peter in his sheepskin bed answer her by curling his nose tighter into his tail.

  “Thanks for checking on us, dear.” Barb began to close the door. “Now get back inside or you’ll catch your death.”

  That’s exactly what I was afraid of, too.

  I raced down the steps, pausing near Suzanne’s apartment. I raised my hand to knock but pulled it away at the last second, instead stepping into my apartment. I hurried back out carrying the banana bread still wrapped in plastic.

  When Suzanne answered my knock, I held out the loaf. “Hey, Barb made this but I can’t have walnuts. Do you want it?”

  “You bet.” She snatched it away. “Thanks.”

  “Hey,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Were you on my patio today? I saw some footprints … ”

  “Yesterday, when I was trying to get your attention so I could give you those books.”

  My breath released in a whoosh. Of course. “And you walked along the wall to my kitchen window?”

  Suzanne shook her head vigorously. “Nope. Not me.”

  My heartbeat jumped to double-time and I took a step backward from her. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She squinted. “Why?”

  “No reason. Just wondered.” I tried to control the squeak in my voice, but wasn’t sure I succeeded.

  “You have a Peeping Tom?”

  I gave her a tight smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but keep an eye out, okay?”

  She agreed and called out a thanks for the banana bread, but I had shut and locked my door by the time it reached me.

  I dialed Lance and told him I thought someone had been peeping in my windows.

  “It’s your imagination. Right there in front? I doubt it. Now, at those buildings in back, where Ozzi’s is, absolutely. Nobody goes back there. But you’re right on the sidewalk, near the parking lot with all those lights.”

  “There are footprints in the snow right along the building from my patio to my kitchen window.”

  “You saw them go right up to your window, but not past it?”

  “No. I didn’t look that close. I stayed on the sidewalk.” I began to feel foolish. Now I couldn’t even say for sure the footprints weren’t there earlier when I’d collected Peter O’Drool. Or even last week.

  “Maybe maintenance came by to check something. You need to take a breath and chill, Space Case.”

  Hearing his childhood nickname for me was oddly comforting. I took a breath but was not anywhere near chill. He talked a bit more, being logical, trying to calm me down, but I quit listening to his words. Instead I let the sound and cadence of his voice wash over me. Finally I interrupted whatever he was saying. “Will you come over?”

  “Can’t. Got a shift in twenty minutes. Go … eat some soup or something.”

  “I don’t have any soup.”

  “Eat cereal. Watch TV. Have you been sleeping?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, that’s it then. You’re going bonkers from lack of soup and sleep. Just like you’d get during finals.”

  “Murderers and stalkers are hardly the same as college exams.”

  “True. But when you’re tired, you tend to freak out over little stuff. Have Ozzi cook you a nice dinner tonight and drink that wine you’ve been saving. Call maintenance. Things will be better tomorrow after you’re thinking straight.”

  Maybe. “Are you sure you can’t come over?”

  “I told you, I—”

  “Fine.”

  “Call me if you need me.” He quickly added, “But you won’t.”

  He was probably right. It was my imagination. I thought about those footprints leading from the sidewalk to my patio. Yes, most likely made by Suzanne. She either forgot or just didn’t want to say that she’d peeked in the kitchen.

  Or it was a maintenance guy. Lance was probably right.

  I sighed, wondering if he was right about Ozzi, too. I reached for my phone to call him but drew my hand back. I wanted to kiss Ozzi and have him wrap me in a hug, but it still hurt, remembering how he made me feel. Was I just being stubborn? Were we mismatched? This was our only big crisis so far and we weren’t handling it very well. Besides, was it fair to drag him into my drama? He didn’t sign up for that.

  I couldn’t afford to use any brain cells to figure out how to save my love life. I needed them to save my real life.

  I wanted to talk to my mom. An adult. An adultier adult. I covered my face with my palms and remembered Jonathan Crier’s words. He said he’d spoken with everyone I knew. My mom, too? Tears sprang to my eyes. The last I’d heard from her was that text message she’d left me on Monday before I heard about Melinda. She didn’t know anything about any of this. Or at least I hoped she didn’t.

  I picked up my phone with shaky hands and dialed her number. Her message came on. She’d changed it since the last time I’d called.

  “If this is some reporter, hang up now. I’m not talking. And if it’s you, Bug, you be careful.”

  I clicked off. “I will, Mom. But I don’t know what to be careful of.”

  Fourteen

  I needed to find out who, specifically, had talked to Jonathan Crier and what they’d said. No. I needed to find out who killed Melinda. I looked over my list of suspects. What kind of alibis did they have? I thought back to my research about mercury. I closed my eyes and watched my murderer in Mercury Rising prepare for and commit the crime…

  Ordering the mercury online. Putting on gloves. Jimmying the lock on the car. Using Glu-Pocalypse to keep the heater on high and the windows closed. Spreading the beads of mercury under the driver’s side floor mat.

  I shook my head. I didn’t know anyone who would do that. Maybe I was going about this wrong. What I needed to do was clear everyone. Prove they didn’t do it. I pulled my list toward me.

  The one name on there that I most wanted to clear was Ozzi. Even though his motive was nonexistent, I couldn’t just pick up the phone and ask him about his alibi. I fiddled with a pen while I thought. The only thing I could think of that would make him get up in the middle of the night, shower, and leave my apartment would be if he got a call from his mom or from work. During our fight he’d told me that his sister had been with their mom, so even if there’d been some sort of emergency, Bubbles was there to handle it. Unless maybe they’d both been in a car accident. No, he would have told me that. I couldn’t come up with any plausible emergency scenario involving his mother, so the only other option was a work emergency.

  I thought about Jonathan Crier and picked up the phone. Instead of calling Ozzi’s cell, I called his main office number. After threading my way through the automated jungle, keying in the responses I hoped wouldn’t disconnect me, I was rewarded by a woman’s Southern drawl. “Tech support. What can I do for ya’ll today?”

  Waiting for the automated choices to be announced, I wondered about a Denver-based tech company using a sweet Georgia peach on their recording.

  “Hello? Darlin’, I’m ’bout as busy as a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest, so if ya’ll ain’t got a question for me to answer, then—”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re a real person!”

  “Real as apple butter. Who’m I talkin’ at?”

  I stammered, trekking back to the plan I’d made before falling into voicemail hell. “I … I’m Jon … abelle Crier from the Denver Post.”

  “Jonabelle?”

  “I was named after my grandp
arents.”

  “Well, bless your heart. And what can I do for you?”

  I took a stab. “I’m calling to ask about a recent server crash that your technicians responded to. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I do indeed. It had everyone scrambling around like cats on a marble floor.” She paused. “Wanna quote me?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Well, write this down. I’m Miss Lulaila—that’s L-U-L-A-I-L-A—Philpott, of the Willacoochee Philpotts. Ever been to Willacoochee?”

  “I don’t believe so, no.”

  “Oh, you’d know it. It’s hotter’n a billy goat in a pepper patch ten months out of the year.”

  “I’ll make a note. So … the server crash? When was that, exactly?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. We put out the all-hands-on-deck call round about eleven Sunday night—I remember because I was worried about the sweet tea brewin’ and chillin’ in time—and finally got the fox out of that particular henhouse Monday lunchtime. I remember because I was so hungry my belly thought my throat been cut. I tell you what, when all the fussin’ was over, I felt like I was rode hard and put away wet. Slept clear through till Tuesday.”

  “Do you remember seeing Ozzi Rabbinowitz there?”

  “I do indeed. He was madder’n a wet hen when he found out somebody threw a clod in the churn.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  She lowered her voice. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you none of this, but it wasn’t no hacker like we thought. It was one of our own IT guys, dumber than a box of rocks. He been fired, but I shouldn’t say who he is. His mama may read that paper of yours.”

  “Paper? Oh, yes, the paper.” She’d been so entertaining I’d almost forgotten. “No names. It’s not even an article about the server crash. Just some deep background for another story.”

  “I’d sure like to hear ’bout it, but I got calls backin’ up clear to Canada. Anything else I can do you for?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m good.”

  “Well then, you have a blessed day.”

  I grinned and hung up the phone. Miss Lulaila Philpott of the Willacoochee Philpotts had just cleared Ozzi’s name.

  In the alibi space next to his name, I wrote “At work” and then crossed him off the list.

  My confidence was high, so I searched the list for the next person I wanted to clear. Sheelah. She’d been in the ER and went to the dentist in the morning. I chewed the pen cap. Easy enough to verify her alibi if I knew the name of her dentist.

  I dialed her number. “Hey, Sheelah … ” Suddenly I had no idea what to say.

  “Charlee? What’s the matter?”

  “I … I … need to know the name of your dentist.” It all came out as one word.

  She didn’t respond for a long time. Then, “Dr. Sayles in Castle Rock. His office manager is Monica. She can confirm my alibi.”

  “Sheelah, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know you have to check. I’d do it too, if I were in your shoes. It’s just—”

  At the same time we both said, “Weird.”

  After we hung up, I googled the dentist and found his number. I asked for Monica and explained what I needed.

  “That’s privileged information. We follow HIPAA rules around here. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “Will you at least call Sheelah and ask her permission to tell me? I’m sure she’ll agree.”

  “No promises.” Click.

  As I was brainstorming other ways to verify Sheelah’s alibi—none of them logical or easy—my phone rang. Dr. Sayles’ number.

  “Monica?”

  “Miss Russo, I’ve spoken with Sheelah Doyle and I can verify she had a dental emergency last Sunday night when she contacted our on-call dentist. She was directed to the emergency room and was in our office first thing Monday morning.”

  She sounded like she was reading from a script, and maybe she was. I’d signed enough of those HIPAA forms to know patient privacy was a huge deal.

  “Thank you so much, Monica. I appreciate it.”

  “I hope I wasn’t rude, but you can’t be too careful with the personal information you give out these days.”

  “Of course not. You’re just doing your job. I get that. And you weren’t at all rude. Thanks again.”

  With a relieved breath I crossed off Sheelah’s name too.

  Bubbles was next. Even though I’d shouted an accusation about Ozzi’s sister the other night, I knew her motive was weak. If I could verify she was at their mom’s house, then that would be three names crossed off in less than an hour. Plus, I knew my anger at Ozzi was fading and this would be an excellent way to broker a truce.

  I called her, my heart feeling lighter than it had since all this ugliness began. “Hey, Bubbles? Do you have a minute? I was wondering what you were doing the night before Melinda was killed.”

  Silence.

  “Bubbles? You there?”

  “Charlee, did you just accuse me of killing your agent?”

  “No, I—” Probably should have thought this through better.

  “Because if you’re looking for someone to throw under the bus—or in this case, the classic Corvette—then you better go look in your mirror. Don’t call me again, and stay away from my brother.”

  “No, Bubbles ...” But she was gone.

  I swallowed my pride and dialed Ozzi to try and mitigate anything she might say to him. Straight to voicemail. I called Bubbles back. Also voicemail. She’d beat me to him. I ran my hands through my hair.

  That’s what I got for being cocky.

  I considered my options for checking Bubbles’ alibi and could only come up with one. I dialed the phone.

  “Hey, Mrs. Rabbinowitz, it’s Charlee. How are you?”

  “How many times have I told you to call me Bunny?”

  About a million. But neither my brain nor my mouth would cooperate. It was hard enough to use her daughter’s nickname. “Sorry.”

  “No, never mind. How’s that son of mine?”

  “He’s fine, but I realized I haven’t seen you in a while. Are you free for coffee?” I knew she worked just south of Denver in Castle Rock, a quick trip on the freeway.

  “I am free, and I’d love company, but I’m not at work. Can you come down to Monument? I’ll make you a home-cooked meal.”

  Monument was at least another half hour or so, almost to Colorado Springs. I checked the time. I could be down and back home before five and watch her face to see if she was telling the truth. “Sure, I can come down, but don’t bother with dinner. I can’t stay.”

  “Actually, that’s good. I’ve had a procedure, which is why I’m not at work, and I’m supposed to stay off my feet.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, just inconvenient. When can I expect you?”

  “I’ll leave right now. Forty-five minutes? An hour? Depends on traffic.”

  “That’ll give me time to hobble to the door and unlock it for you. See you soon.”

  I hopped in the car and made it in record time. I forgot the speed limit was seventy-five down there. And the Traffic Fairy granted my wish.

  I exited the freeway and wound through curving roads, most of the houses hidden by enormous spruce and pine trees. There was snow on the ground, and I was thankful the weather had cooperated today.

  I located the correct street and turned into her driveway, skidding on hidden ice down the short incline before parking and catching my breath. I knocked and opened the front door to her house, calling, “Mrs. Rabbinowitz? It’s me, Charlee.”

  “In here.”

  I followed the sound of her voice to a bedroom. She sat in the bed with her legs propped up on pillows. On either side of her there were two trays covered with everything a recuperating patient would need: tissues, water bottles, pain reliever, coffee carafe, hand lotion, cell phone, cordless house phone, several remotes, pile of paperbacks, Kindle e-reader, cookies, crackers, snacks of all kinds.


  She watched me surveying her bedquarters. “Only thing I don’t have is a bedpan!”

  “Do you need help—”

  “Nah, just went. I try to get up every so often and move around. Don’t want bedsores.” She saw the alarm on my face but waved away my concerns. “It’s nothing. I’m just down for a couple days.” She muted the sound on the TV and motioned me to a chair. “So, what do I owe the honor?”

  “Nothing, really. Just wanted to visit. If I’d known you had surgery—”

  “Just an outpatient thing. Didn’t even need the full anesthesia. Ozzi didn’t tell you?”

  I looked at my hands. “We had a fight.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “So you wanted his mama’s take on things. Let me tell you about Ozzi—”

  “No, that’s … I know why—”

  She talked over me and launched into a story about her late husband, Ozzi and Bubbles’ father.

  I didn’t really want her to dig into my relationship, but I let her talk anyway. It was a much better reason for driving all the way down here than to ask about her daughter’s alibi for a murder. She handed me snacks while she talked, which was great because she was talking up a storm. Clearly, she’d been by herself for a couple of days. I just had to find an opening to ask about Bubbles.

  “ … One thing you have to make sure of is that you’re doing enough activities together. Even if it’s just watching TV. Personally, I love TV. You young kids, though, always have to be moving and shaking … ”

  I let her voice drone over me while I ate another Oreo. If Bubbles was with her on Sunday night like Ozzi said, and she loved TV so much … “Do you watch Masterpiece Theatre on Sunday nights?”

  Her eyes widened. “I do! Love that Downton Abbey. And the mysteries. I’m glued to PBS on Sunday nights.”

  “Did you see the last episode?”

  She leaned forward. “Yes! Wasn’t it great? That Maggie Smith is a pip. Bubbles and I were laughing our heads off.”

  “Bubbles was here?”