Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  Probably? Was this guy for real? He was clearly just punching the clock, counting down the minutes until his retirement. And why was he here without his partner? Again, I felt my face redden and fought to keep my temper. Was Campbell trying to railroad Suzanne? He was burned out on this case and she was the path of least resistance. I thought of my brother and all the good, diligent cops in the world. They’d never think of picking the low-hanging fruit. Sure, Suzanne was eccentric and broke into bookstores, and maybe even had done a stint locked up in a loony bin. But since when did that mean she killed Melinda? She didn’t have a motive before, and she still didn’t have one now. And if they arrested her for it, then there would still be a murderer out there, perhaps stalking me.

  I finally managed to speak. “So you’ve cleared everyone else who read my manuscript?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” He waved away my question like it was an annoying gnat.

  “You talked to Sheelah’s dentist, AmyJo’s sister, and the photographer at the Pleasure Center for Armadillos concert?”

  “Absolutely.” Campbell slid his pen through the spiral of his notebook. “Everything checked out.”

  I offered him some of Barb’s walnut-laced cookies to buy myself some time to think. “That photographer was something else, right? What was her name? Guadalupe Hernandez? I could barely understand her, that accent was so heavy.” Guadalupe Hernandez was a girl I went to high school with. She spoke with perfect diction and had no hint of an accent. Why her name popped into my head, I’ll never know. But it was a little bit genius.

  “I used a translator. Don’t want anything amiss when it goes to the DA.”

  I slid my hands under my thighs. He was outright lying about investigating Melinda’s murder. This was way beyond withholding a few facts or keeping your cards close to your vest. This was laziness. Fabrication. Dereliction of duty.

  My pulse quickened, as did my breathing. “Remind me what time frame you’re concentrating on?”

  “Ms. Walter parked her car late Sunday, left her house around seven Monday morning, and was found dead soon after that.”

  “Well, then, it can’t be Suzanne. She was with me.” Reputation be damned.

  “Weren’t you with your boyfriend? Kinky.”

  “After he left, I couldn’t sleep. It was only around midnight. I heard Suzanne next door, so I asked her to … help me move some stuff to my storage unit. I’d been putting it off, and since we were both wide awake, it seemed like as good a time as any to do it.” I tried to picture the inside of my unit. Please, please, please don’t ask me what we moved there. I added, “That’s when I spilled on myself. At the storage unit. With Suzanne. We were there all night.” Oh, why did I say all that? It was so easily checked. And would they really believe I’d worn the same clothes the next day? I glanced down at my shirt. Probably.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Campbell pulled the pen from the spiral loop on his notebook.

  “I forgot. It’s not every day that I get accused of murder.” Which was, of course, all the more reason to have mentioned it. I hoped he would overlook that.

  “Why didn’t Ms. Medina tell us?”

  “You said yourself she was crazy.”

  The detective stood and pocketed his notebook and pen, leaving his cup on the table. “I guess this requires a follow-up conversation with her.” I was eighty-seven percent sure Suzanne didn’t kill Melinda, but one hundred percent sure Campbell was not doing his job. I couldn’t let him keep doing this to her simply because he wanted to create a slam-dunk before his retirement swan song.

  “What was Suzanne’s motive?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Why does anyone kill anyone?” He zipped his parka and left my apartment. I heard him knock on Suzanne’s door.

  He knocked again, louder.

  I looked out the window and saw him walking toward the parking lot. I was relieved that Suzanne wasn’t home, because if she didn’t corroborate the alibi I’d created for her, Campbell would probably be marching both of us off in handcuffs right now.

  When he reached the edge of the building, an eddy of snow swirled around him and walked him to his car. The dark sky belied the daytime hour, and the snow fell harder. Shadows danced around the corners of the buildings, but I didn’t know whether it was the wind playing tricks or something—or someone—else.

  Watching Campbell drive away created a knot of both relief and anxiety in the pit of my stomach. There was an immediate knock on the door. I opened it to Suzanne.

  “I thought you weren’t home.”

  “I’m a klepto, not an imbecile. I know when to dodge a cop. Especially one who wants to verify a fake alibi.”

  “You heard?”

  “I hear everything that goes on in your apartment, love. I know you pay for Don and Barb’s housecleaning. I know you have a bit of a problem with lactose. And I know that you and Ozzi don’t really watch late-night TV even though it’s on.”

  I blushed. “I never hear you.”

  “I don’t have a hot boyfriend.” Suzanne plopped herself on my couch. “And now you know my secrets. So tell me. What did we put in your storage unit and how long did it take us?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Suzanne, I’m only going to ask you this once. And you better tell me the truth.”

  “Or else what?”

  “I don’t know. But you better tell me the truth.” I took a deep breath. “Did you have anything to do with Melinda Walter’s death?”

  “Don’t be a ninny. Of course I didn’t.” She eyed the chocolate oatmeal cookies on the table. “Can I?”

  I stared at her, then collapsed into the chair. “Be my guest.” I watched her take enthusiastic bites. “I believe you.”

  “Duh.”

  “Now go away so I can think.” She gestured toward the plate. “Yes. Fine. Take them.”

  When she closed the door behind her, I called Lance. While I waited for him to answer, I glanced uneasily at the vent and wondered how well Suzanne really heard what went on in here.

  “Charlee, I can’t talk.”

  “Not an option right now. Detective Campbell came to see me.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s not doing his job. I’ve investigated Melinda’s death more than he has. He’s convinced my neighbor Suzanne did it.”

  “And?”

  “And she didn’t do it. And the real killer is still out there. And maybe after me. And it’s not random—it has to be somebody I know. And it’s not my imagination. And you have to call Campbell and see what’s going on. He’s railroading an innocent person. Somebody needs to solve this crime. Preferably somebody with a badge.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Lance, it’s not my imagination.”

  “It probably is, but I can’t do anything anyway. I’m not supposed to have any contact with you—”

  “But you never told me why.”

  “—or anyone on this case. I’m on desk duty. Chief got a call making … allegations about me … ”

  “What kind of allegations?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Tell me. You know I’m not letting this drop. It sounds serious. Is it serious?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “Tell me. I won’t breathe a word. You know I won’t.”

  “Three anonymous calls this week. Maybe from the same person, maybe not. Said I bought booze one night on shift and drove away drinking it. Said I offered to get someone out of a ticket in exchange for a—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “—sexual favor. And,” he took a deep breath, “that I’m covering up for you in the murder of your agent by tainting evidence.”

  “What evidence? What are they talking about? You haven’t done any of that!”

  “I know. And I hope Chief knows. But until it’s all straightened out, I’m pushing papers and getting coffee.” Pause. “Charlee, you can’t say anything about this and you can’t help me. I’ll do wh
at I can to find out about Detective Campbell, but I’m warning you, it won’t be much. And you shouldn’t get too deep into this either.”

  “I have to do what I have to do. And you do too. You be careful, Lance. This is your career. Everything you’ve always worked for.”

  “You be careful too, Space Case. Everything will be fine, but still. And call Mom. She’s worried. But she doesn’t know anything about this. Keep it that way.”

  “Okay.”

  My mind whirled with questions, finally landing on one: maybe whoever was trying to frame me was also trying to ruin Lance’s career. Who did we know who hated us both that much?

  I hung up and dialed Mom, almost relieved when she didn’t answer. Otherwise I knew I’d start crying or blabbing. “Hi, Mom. Sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” I said to the voicemail, “but it’s been a bit crazy with all this. I’m fine, though. I’ve got … Lance and AmyJo and Ozzi. There’s nothing you can do from Santa Fe but I’ll call you when I have any news. Lance is fine too.” I squinched my face, wishing I could grab those words back. She’d see right through that and know he wasn’t fine. Mom Radar worked in person, over the phone, and probably in the vacuum of deep space. “Okay, talk to you later.”

  I fiddled with the phone in my hand. If Lance couldn’t help me with Detective Campbell, there was only one other person who could.

  Detective Ming-like-the-vase. I hadn’t spoken to him since that first day, and I tried to put my finger on why I didn’t trust him. That smarmy slicked-back hair, for one thing. But I couldn’t come up with anything else. I called and was put on hold for a long time. It gave me time to rehearse what I wanted to say, for a change. When he finally answered, I said, “Detective Ming? It’s Charlee Russo. Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s about Detective Campbell. When he came over a little while ago—”

  “Today?”

  “Yes. He brought me coffee this morning and wanted to ask me some more questions.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “It’s just … well, it seems like he’s already decided that my neighbor Suzanne Medina is guilty of Melinda’s murder, but he hadn’t talked to some of the people I’ve talked to, so it seems like maybe he’s jumping the gun a little?”

  “You’ve been talking to people?”

  “Um … yes?”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone who read my manuscript. Melinda’s mechanic. Sheelah’s dentist. The photographer for Pleasure Center for Armadillos.”

  “I see.”

  I see was not a helpful phrase right now. I wasn’t even sure he did see. “Detective Ming, I don’t want to tell either of you how to do your job, but in my opinion, based on what I’ve seen and what he’s told me, Detective Campbell is not being thorough in his investigation, and I’m worried that he’s zeroed in on an innocent person and that the real killer may go free.”

  “Are you making a complaint against Detective Campbell?”

  “No, of course not.” Was I? Allegations like this could jam him up just like the ones against Lance. I didn’t want that hanging on my conscience. “No, no official complaint. But can you just check into things and make sure he’s going by the book?”

  “Miss Russo, Detective Campbell has been on the job for a very long time. He has solved many a murder and sent lots of bad guys to prison. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Of course he does. But he’s also really close to retirement and he told me about his last case that the DA threw out. He said he worked hard on it but they declined to pursue it. Isn’t it possible that left a bad taste in his mouth? And since this will probably be his last case, isn’t it possible he’s cutting corners so he won’t feel so invested if they decline to pursue this one too?”

  “Those are some pretty heavy-duty allegations, and I certainly hope you haven’t voiced them anywhere else. I suggest you let Detective Campbell do his job—”

  “That’s the point! I don’t think he is.”

  “If you’re not going to make an official complaint, I think this conversation is over. Good day, Miss Russo.”

  My mind wandered back through my conversation with Campbell that morning. Was Ming right? Was Campbell doing a good job? A doubt-spiral slowly pulled me down, like a slo-mo undersea whirlpool. Before it lugged me all the way down, though, I kicked and fought my way back to the surface.

  Campbell wasn’t doing his job. Suzanne didn’t kill Melinda. My determination to figure it out strengthened.

  Ming didn’t see at all.

  Twenty

  More weird dreams and continued poor sleep plagued me all night. This time, I dreamed a gigantic Denver Post knocked on my door and swallowed me whole, cackling and rattling its pages like a hurricane. I woke up sweating, shaking, and longing for Ozzi.

  When I heard the huge Sunday paper thump against my front door, almost four hours after it was due, I retrieved it. The storm had blown in with a vengeance and covered everything with at least a foot of heavy, wet snow. In places, the wind had drifted it to mid-thigh. The summer-like blue sky belied the arctic air. No wonder the paper was late.

  There hadn’t been any articles the past few days with my name mentioned, and I hoped the same held true today.

  I tore the paper from its orange plastic sleeve, pulling out the front section and flattening it on my kitchen table. Hope was a fickle thing, and it didn’t take long to find a new article about me. Front page. Below the fold. This time it was illustrated with a graphic my publisher had put together for my last book tour—my photo centered above my newest release, Pursued to Death, with the dates and locations of my official signings in each corner. I’d hated that poster then, and I especially hated it now. They say all publicity is good publicity, but that can’t be true. I thought about the phone call with Penn & Powell’s attorney and my stomach lurched. My career was probably over anyway.

  I read the article.

  Embezzlement Investigation Continues. Most of it was my bio and career information, pulled verbatim from my website. Then a recap of Melinda’s murder—still no mention of the mercury—and a reiteration of the royalty dispute already reported. Then a wildly inflated income bracket for me. I wish. And then, just like Jonathan Crier had promised, a lot of vague non-news, all attributed to anonymous sources.

  I folded the paper and shoved away from the table to have a nice, self-indulgent cry in the shower.

  My phone was dead—again—so I plugged it into the charger and texted AmyJo. She jumped at the chance to meet me at Espresso Yourself. I didn’t feel guilty asking her to drive on a day like this; she loved challenging her enormous pickup in deep snow. I guess that’s what happens when your brothers teach you to drive around the farm when you’re eleven.

  Personally, driving in weather like this scared me more than whatever bogeyman might be out to kill me. I had no control when driving on snow or ice, but at least when walking around, I could keep my guard up and have a modicum of control even on a snowy day like this. Plus, there was a bottomless cup of coffee and scrumptious non-walnut-y pastry waiting for me. Maybe two.

  Forty minutes later, hair dried, wearing clean jeans, a funky sweater, and tall boots over my jeans, I felt presentable enough to leave my apartment. I’d also pep-talked myself that walking to the coffee shop wasn’t likely to get me murdered. I wasn’t convinced, but again, I hoped luck was with me.

  I slid my phone and the newspaper into my messenger bag, bundled up, and set out for Espresso Yourself. Maybe I could find out if they’d had any recent break-ins.

  It would have been faster to cut through the apartment’s parking lot and move between the cars, but I’d seen enough movies to know that was a bad idea, pep talk or not. In fact, in one of my novels—Fragments of Fear—there was a chloroform abduction in a crowded parking lot. So I opted to tromp along the wide, curving sidewalk all the way around, wishing the maintenance crew had begun their snow removal on this side of the complex.

 
; The pedestrian gate on the south side of the complex stood open. I remembered the shadows yesterday when Detective Campbell left. I glanced around and saw nobody, yet there were footprints in the snow. There were only two sets: mine and another that disappeared just past the gate and over the snowy grass. Glancing into my bag, I pretended to search for something, but behind my sunglasses, I cut my eyes toward the disappearing tracks. There were no apartments over there, just some carports and storage units. Easily capable of hiding someone.

  I hurried through the gate, fighting with the drifted snow to close it behind me, but it wouldn’t latch. I fiddled with it, trying to make it look like the gate was locked even though I knew the next person through probably wouldn’t go to such trouble. I called the management office while I trudged through the snow. They weren’t open, so I left a message. “Hi. This is Charlee Russo. The pedestrian gate on the south side is broken. Can you get somebody out here to fix it today? I know it’s Sunday, but I pay for a secure building, and this doesn’t seem very secure. Thanks.” Even though it was a twenty-four-hour number, I wondered if they’d actually get the message today.

  The sign for Espresso Yourself beckoned, relaxing me a bit. As I crossed the street, I heard whimpering and froze in the center of the street. No cars. No people. I strained, listening, but heard nothing. Must have been my imagination. I got to the opposite curb and heard it again. A little louder. Coming from the buildings on my right.

  Every instinct told me it was a trap and to run into the warmth of the coffee shop for help, but I didn’t. It sounded too much like Peter O’Drool. I moved slowly, picking my way across the snowy sidewalk. When the noise stopped, I stopped.

  At the edge of a building, I crouched and peeked around the corner. Only the usual alley-way decorations: dumpsters, trash, a broken chair. I crouched there until my thighs burned, about twenty-two seconds. Shaking my head at my overactive imagination, I placed a palm against the wall for balance as I stood.

  BAM! Something came at me and knocked me clear to Thursday. I closed my eyes and flailed. Swung my bag. Kicked. Screeched. I scrambled backward into a snowbank on my already sore butt, bucking and twisting. No hands touched me. No voices spoke. When I felt like I’d settled, I braced myself and opened my eyes to my fate.