Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  “Nothing. Well, sometimes I get hungry when I’m there.”

  I inspected practically one entire wall of books. All were from Espresso Yourself.

  “Believe me now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what to believe.” I brushed past her into the living room, and a calendar thumb-tacked to the wall caught my eye. All of the Monday squares were colored in neon orange marker. Each square had Senior Center 4 a.m.–noon written in it. Was Suzanne breaking in there, too? And would she be so blatant as to calendar it?

  She sauntered past me and flopped on her couch, raising a pillow behind her neck.

  “Since when is the Senior Center open at four in the morning?”

  “It’s not. But the residential side needs caregivers. Namely, me. On Mondays for the last three years, anyway.”

  I watched as she adjusted the pillow. I had to admit, Suzanne did not look like a killer. She seemed calm and at ease with me asking her questions and inspecting her life. But still. “You mean to tell me you break into the coffee shop every Sunday night at midnight, then go to work at 4 a.m.?”

  “I don’t sleep much.”

  My brow furrowed, and she realized I’d need more information. “They get new books every Friday but don’t get around to putting them out until late Saturday. I don’t like ’em picked over.”

  “Then why not break in on Saturday night?”

  “Because after the Sunday rush, they get their pastries ready for the week. I told you, sometimes I get hungry. Have you ever had their butter braids? Magnificent.”

  It all sounded ridiculous enough to be true. And the butter braids were magnificent, and usually scarce, which is why I always got a muffin. I didn’t know what to believe. I stared at my neighbor lounging on the couch, looking relaxed, perhaps even relieved to have confessed. She certainly didn’t look like a murderer. But my gut feeling wasn’t proof. I needed more.

  I pulled my phone from the pocket of my jeans and, without looking, pushed the power button and flipped the silencer on the side. “What was that?” I pointed toward the kitchen.

  As Suzanne tilted her head and glanced that direction, I snapped a series of photos of her.

  She never knew.

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Must have been my imagination.” I turned to leave. “I need to think about all of this.” Before the door closed behind me, I reminded her about my brother, the cop.

  I ran into my apartment long enough to grab a coat. As I walked to Espresso Yourself, I called Lance.

  “Finally!” he said. “I was two seconds out the door. What was that all about?”

  “Stand down, Officer.” I didn’t want to explain about Suzanne until I knew more. “I was just talking to somebody I felt iffy about, but it’s okay now. They’re gone.”

  “Sounds like you’re being stupid.”

  “If by stupid you mean the opposite of stupid, then yes.” I expected at least a chuckle from him but didn’t get it. “Remember how Mom and Dad used to say we could use them as an excuse if we didn’t want to go to a party or something that made us feel uncomfortable?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, I do, and that’s what I was doing with you.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Melinda’s murder?”

  I stopped walking and jiggled my knees in frustration. “Lance, I need to prove my friends aren’t killers. I need to put this behind me, get some closure, and get back to my writing.”

  “What you need is to let the police solve this.”

  “You’re the police, so who did it?”

  He ignored my snark. “I’m not working this case. In fact, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you about it.”

  Before I could ask why, he said, “Leave it to the professionals, Charlee. I mean it,” and then he hung up.

  “Oh, he means it,” I mocked, dropping the phone in my bag. “Easy for him to say.”

  A few minutes later I saw the coffee shop sign. Wooden, hand-lettered, with bright colors announcing Espresso Yourself—Coffee and Books, with a tagline underneath: For when you have a latte on your mind.

  The sign wasn’t the only thing about the coffee place that I loved. Even when it was crowded, nobody was surly. The coffee wasn’t great, but it was more than serviceable. Cheap and plentiful, too. And someone else made it, which increased deliciousness a hundredfold. Suzanne was right about the pastries. Everything was always magnificent. The muffins were covered in mysteriously marvelous streusel, made with prodigious amounts of butter, brown sugar, and what I theorized must be crack cocaine, ensuring my loyalty.

  So I walked into Espresso Yourself, completely dead at 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon. The proprietors were two gay ex-Marines—Lavar the crazy Christian and Tuttle the crazy atheist—both with physiques that would put a recruiting poster to shame. If it wasn’t too busy, they’d argue, tease, and score philosophical points with the other to pass the time. Regardless, it was clear they loved each other, and they made everyone feel welcome, no matter what.

  Lavar sat at a table with an empty plate crisscrossed by a knife and fork in front of him. Tuttle perched on a stool behind the counter, reading a book. They both jumped up to hug me when I walked in.

  “Girl, whachoo doing here? Got a case of writer’s block only my coffee will dislodge?” Lavar asked.

  “Nope, not writing much the past few days.”

  “Tut and I are both praying for you.”

  “Speak for yourself, Lavar. I ain’t praying for nobody.” Tuttle’s face softened. “But I do hope they find out what happened to your friend, Charlee. Shameful business.”

  “Thanks, guys. I wanted to see if you know this woman.” I held out my phone to Lavar and scrolled through a few of the photos of Suzanne. I didn’t want to say anything about the break-ins until I knew more.

  Lavar shook his head and handed the phone to Tuttle. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

  “To me neither.” Tuttle handed the phone back to me.

  “Do you guys keep a customer database?”

  They both laughed.

  “Aren’t you precious,” Lavar finally said.

  “So, no?”

  “No.”

  “Why? Who is she? Wait—you’re investigating!” Tuttle’s hand flew to his throat. “Is she the murderer?”

  “That’s an unpleasant thought.” I didn’t tell them it had crossed my mind more than once.

  “You know what I mean,” he said.

  “She’s my neighbor.”

  “Did something happen to her? Is she okay?” Lavar asked.

  “Jury’s still out, but I’ll let you know.”

  Eighteen

  I finally got a solid eight hours of sleep, but only because I dosed myself with some expired nighttime cold-and-flu concoction I found in the medicine cabinet. Friday dawned cloudy in all the imaginable ways. Don’t tell the FDA.

  Wedging myself in the corner of the shower until the hot water ran cold helped brush away the majority of the cobwebs in my brain. I made a plan for the day. It had two things in it: make coffee, and verify the alibi of Dave and Veta Burr.

  I padded out to the kitchen in my ratty chenille robe and stared into the empty coffee container. I pulled the carafe out from the coffeemaker. Empty. Revising my plan to “obtain” coffee and clear Dave and Veta, I padded back to my room to get dressed.

  Espresso Yourself was crowded, so no time to chitchat with Lavar or Tuttle. I did ask about the deliciously sweet berry and butter aroma, but that could hardly be considered chitchat.

  “Blueberry butter braid,” Lavar said while he poured my coffee. “But it’s gone already. We never seem to have enough of that stuff.” He tightened the lid of my plastic travel mug, then handed me a streusel muffin.

  I pulled out my wallet but he waved it away. “How do you guys stay in business?”

  “Power of prayer, baby. Power of prayer.”

  When he turned to the next customer, I crammed a twen
ty in the tip jar. As I walked to my car I wondered if that was their nefarious business plan. Did they convince everyone to pay twenty bucks for a five-dollar order? If so, they were geniuses.

  Everything was cold, inside the car and out, so I kept my gloves on even though it made it more difficult to pull my mug from the cup holder. In the half hour it took to get to Dave and Veta’s neighborhood, I was only able to sip half my coffee before it got tepid and uninspiring.

  I had just turned into their Westminster subdivision of cookie cutter houses when a black SUV with darkly tinted windows almost T-boned me from the left, forcing me into a cul-de-sac on the right. I slammed on the brakes and let loose a stream of profanity, directed its way, that fogged up my windshield. I assumed they simply hadn’t seen me in their rush to get to work or school or the hospital to have their baby. But as I rolled down my window to help defog the car, I was surprised to see that instead of leaving the subdivision, the SUV turned and went deeper into the development.

  I used a sleeve to clear the windshield the rest of the way and rolled my window up. I pulled up a mental map of Dave and Veta’s neighborhood but couldn’t picture another way out. Like most large subdivisions, there probably was one, but why wouldn’t the SUV take the closest exit, especially when they were obviously in a hurry?

  Oh well, what did I care, as long as they didn’t hit me.

  I hoped I remembered the series of quick turns required to find the Burrs’ address. The streets were all short because there was an elementary school in the center of the development. I didn’t know why that mattered, but it did, and I had to get to the other side. I’d forgotten about the school and was glad it was after nine so the streets weren’t packed with carpoolers. Alone at a four-way stop, I began to cross the intersection when a black SUV—was it the same one that had almost hit me?—slowed, then rolled past. I tried to see who was driving but the tint was too dark. Hadn’t Lance told me one time that it was illegal to have such a dark tint?

  Again, what did I care? That is, until they pulled a U-turn behind me. My eyes kept darting from my mirror to the road in front of me.

  Was it the same car? Were they following me?

  The road curved past a small pocket park and I turned right on the street just past it. The SUV slowed but kept traveling straight. I unclenched my grip on the steering wheel and made a quick right onto Dave and Veta’s street. I passed their house and parked at the curb four houses down. I sat there for a bit, sipping my gross tepid coffee to settle my nerves and make sure the SUV didn’t come back.

  I called Lance. “The weirdest thing just happened.”

  “You didn’t fart in public?”

  “Ha. And no.” I explained what had happened with the SUV. “Isn’t that weird?”

  “That you saw two of the most popular cars in the most popular color in Colorado?”

  “Is that true or are you just making stuff up?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out, Space Case.”

  “Lance.” I tried to use my mother’s voice. “I’m serious.”

  “It was your imagination. Why would a car that almost hit you also try and follow you? You’re jumpy lately. Remember those footprints under your window? Routine maintenance check of the gutters.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a cop with a phone. It ain’t rocket surgery.”

  “You called them? Because you were worried about me? Even when you’d told me not to worry? That’s sweet.”

  “Shaddup. Why are you at Dave and Veta’s?”

  “Social call.”

  “You sure? It’s not part of your investigation?”

  I was fairly certain he knew I was lying, but I said, “I told you. It’s a social call.” What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Riiight.” He paused. “Be careful, Space Case.” Another pause. “Call me later.”

  “Only if you promise to tell everyone how very much you love me,” I said with a smile.

  “Bye.”

  I dropped the phone into my bag, but my smile disappeared. Why would maintenance have been sidling along the wall of my ground-floor apartment to check the gutters on the third floor? Didn’t they have an easier way to access the roof? But I had to believe Lance asked the right questions. I was a bit chagrined I hadn’t thought to call the management office myself.

  At least it made me more confident in my decision not to tell Lance everything that was going on. If I did, he would start looking into it, and he’d told me he wasn’t supposed to be involved.

  A man walking a golden retriever slowed and stared hard at me as he passed, derailing my thoughts, obviously trying to ascertain why I was just sitting in my car.

  He wouldn’t believe me if I told him.

  I waved at him, then reached into my bag and pulled out a clipboard with some papers and a pen attached. The top sheet was a form I’d made that morning, all part of my plan. I buried my Peeping Tom worries and concentrated on the issue at hand. The SUV hadn’t returned, and I hoped Lance was right that it was just my imagination. I got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk toward Dave and Veta’s house. But I stopped at their next door neighbor’s and rang the bell. A woman who looked to be in her sixties opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Hello, I’m conducting some research about—”

  “Not interested.” She started to close the door.

  “It’ll just take a minute. I’ll make it worth your while.” I mentally pawed through my bag, trying to determine if I did, in fact, have anything to make it worth her while.

  “How?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “Um … ” Now I actually pawed through my bag. “Starbucks gift card!” I thrust it triumphantly in the air.

  “How much?”

  “Ten bucks.” It was a token thank you for speaking to a writer’s group a couple of months before. How could they have known I always went to Espresso Yourself ?

  “Okay, but make it snappy. And you might want to lead with that in the future.” She held out her hand and I dropped the card into it.

  “You’re right. I’m new at this.” I pulled the cap from the pen and dug the clipboard into my ribs.

  “What’s this about again?”

  “Your TV habits.”

  “Are we going to be a Nielson family? I’ve always wanted to do that.” The woman slid the Starbucks card into the pocket of her sweater.

  “First, do you have cable?”

  “No, it got too expensive and it was all crap on there anyway.” She nodded at the clipboard. “You tell them that.”

  “For sure.” I wrote expensive crap. “Next question, do you have Netflix?”

  “We get movies in the mail, but next door they have the whatdoyoucallit … George?” She turned and yelled into the house, “What do you call it when we go to Dave and Veta’s to watch TV?”

  A rumpled gray-haired man came to the door. “Sunday?”

  “No, that Netflix thing.”

  “Breaking Bad?”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “No, when you don’t get the movies in the mail but it comes straight through the air.”

  George shrugged.

  “Streaming?” I suggested.

  “Yes. Streaming.” She shooed George away. “He’s not the techie in the family, but he loves going next door for our weekly Breaking Bad watch party. Dave’s an ex-science teacher, so we do it like a book club. We watch and discuss. Sometimes he pauses it to explain more about cooking meth.”

  The idea of four retirees talking about cooking meth made me giggle. “And you do this every Sunday?”

  “Yep. Before that we watched all of The West Wing because George used to teach civics. Same thing.” She leaned in close. “But just between you and me, I like Breaking Bad better.” She grinned. “They should have called it Breaking Best.”

  “Sure,” I said, jotting some notes. “And just to clarify, you were next door at Dave and Veta’s this past Sunday night watching?
”

  “Yep.”

  “What time?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. They come over here around six and I cook dinner. We’re usually over there around eight.”

  “And how long did you stay?”

  “We’re probably home ten or ten thirty, most nights.”

  I winced. That didn’t create much of an alibi. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but corroboration for just a few hours of the time in question wasn’t enough. It was too bad they didn’t turn their viewing parties into slumber parties.

  “Wanna write down the other shows I like?”

  “Um … no, I think I have everything I need.”

  “Not much of a questionnaire.”

  She was right. I needed her to think I was really doing research. I flipped the page, hoping she wouldn’t see it was blank. I angled the clipboard up higher. “Oh, silly me. I forgot the second page. And yes, they want to know the other shows you like.”

  She began rattling off titles, many of which I’d never heard of. Occasionally she’d launch into lengthy and disjointed synopses that I pretended to listen to. But my mind was elsewhere, trying to figure out how I could account for Dave and Veta’s time past ten thirty when their neighbors went home.

  Suddenly a metallic shriek rocked the neighborhood, and I flinched.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. That’s just Dave and Veta’s garage door.” The woman craned her neck toward their house, but I made sure to keep my back to it. “It’s off its tracks or something but they won’t get it fixed. Used to scare the daylights out of me and I’d come running.” She waved. “Dave must be heading off to work.”

  I tapped the pen cap against my cheek. “Do you hear it at night, too?”

  She laughed. “They don’t drive at night. That car is locked up snug as a bug in a rug from sundown to sunup.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. And I’d know it if it wasn’t. The first time I heard that door, around Christmastime, I was taking a nap. I almost fell off the couch. And then I went over and gave them a piece of my mind.”