Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  My respite was short-lived, however, because about as soon as I finished peeing—again—I heard Suzanne’s front door open. The clock on my microwave said 3:27. AmyJo was curled up on the couch with an afghan my mom had crocheted. I peeked out and saw Suzanne heading for her car wearing a parka and hospital green scrubs. She carried something in a plastic grocery bag.

  I left AmyJo sleeping, and as soon as Suzanne was out of sight I hurried to the Kia and followed her. Since there were no cars on the road, I had to stay far back so she wouldn’t see me. I was afraid I’d lose her.

  She stayed on the main streets, not always performing precisely legal stops. It was clear she was going someplace she’d been before, hopefully the Senior Center so I could verify that part of her alibi. After about twenty minutes, I almost cheered as she pulled into the Senior Center parking lot and parked in a space close to the front door. She got out and took the bag with her.

  I waited in my car for a bit, trying to decide what I should do. Now my surveillance had taken a turn into the unknown. I watched while she left the main building through a side door and entered another building. Lights flickered on, so it seemed she was staying there for a bit. Or at least I hoped so.

  I parked on the other side of the lot and hurried into the main building. The door to the vestibule was open but the one into the rest of the building was locked. When I jiggled the door, a nurse looked up. She smiled and waved and then the buzzer sounded, allowing me in.

  She took a few steps toward me, then frowned. “You’re not the temp nurse.”

  I shook my head. “No, sorry.”

  She crossed her arms. “What can I do for you at four a.m., then?”

  “I don’t want to bother you, but I work weird hours and this was the only time I could stop in and inquire about this place for my, um, mother.” My mom was barely AARP age, but nobody needed to know that. And if I told Mom about my inquiries, then it wasn’t really a lie, right?

  “Sure. You want a tour? I’m Sandy, by the way.”

  I sidestepped the introduction. “No, don’t go to any trouble. I’ve just wondered what exactly this place is. A friend told me recently it was residential. And you have twenty-four-hour staff? I just saw someone come in who looked like she was going to work.”

  “Yeah, Suzanne. Oh, and she brought a butter braid. I just heated it up. You want some?”

  “No, thanks. Is this a regular shift for her?”

  “Yep, she’s here four to noon every Monday.” Sandy took a bite of pastry. “We have a large staff, mostly home health care workers trying to get some extra work. But we have some RNs on every shift too. You say your mom is looking to move to a facility?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you. We don’t have any openings. I can put her on a waiting list, though.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it. But I’m curious about that lady I saw come in just now. You say she comes in every Monday at this time?”

  “Never misses.”

  “Never?”

  “Not in the three years I’ve been here. She’s as dependable as the day is long. Makes my job a dream. And the residents love her. She’s always bringing us books and goodies. A real sweetheart.” Sandy took another bite. “You sure you don’t want a tour? It’s no trouble. I can introduce you to Suzanne if you’d like.”

  “No, I won’t bother you anymore. If there’s no room, there’s no room. Thanks anyway.”

  As I drove home, I knew Suzanne’s alibi was not airtight, but it was tighter than many of the other suspects. Why was Detective Campbell so convinced of her guilt? My gut told me she wasn’t Melinda’s killer. Why didn’t his?

  Twenty-Four

  AmyJo flung open my door as soon as I reached it. She grabbed my sleeve and yanked me inside. When I regained my balance she pointed at the clock. “In four minutes I was going to call 911.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to leave you a note.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Almost as soon as we got home, Suzanne left again so I followed her.” I told AmyJo the rest of the story. I finished with, “I know she didn’t do it. I’m crossing her off my list for good. I don’t care what Detective Campbell says.”

  “But he’s the one who gets to say.”

  “I know. So the only way I can keep Suzanne from going away for a very long time is to find the real killer.”

  “Who’s left on the list? Go one by one and let’s talk it through.”

  I crossed to the table and picked up the notepad. “Melinda.”

  “No way. Nobody kills themself like that.”

  I nodded and sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been avoiding crossing her off because if she killed herself, then nobody I know is a murderer.” I put a line through Melinda’s name as well as Suzanne’s.

  “Next.”

  “Melinda’s husband, Henry.”

  AmyJo stared at a spot over my shoulder. “Don’t you think if there was a whiff of guilt with Henry, the police would be all over him?”

  “Yeah, but still, he has a pretty strong motive. I didn’t think so until I went over there and he was all ready to step into Melinda’s business. In less than two days he’d brought himself up to speed on all her clients.”

  “Maybe he’d always been involved in the agency.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And doesn’t he run a successful business himself?”

  “Seems like it. But maybe he ran up a ton of gambling debts or has a drug problem or spent a fortune on strippers.”

  “Don’t you think the police would have found all that out by now?”

  I nodded, glumly. “But if it can’t be Melinda killing herself, I want it to be him. Everyone else is a friend of mine.”

  “I know.” AmyJo was quiet a moment. “Plus, you said yourself that Detective Campbell was apparently taking the easiest path. Seems like the husband would be way easier than Suzanne. I’ve gotta believe they don’t have anything on Henry.” She gestured at the list. “Who’s next?”

  “Kell, of course.” I checked the time. “In a couple hours I can try to catch his secretary and verify his alibi, before she gets busy.” I looked at AmyJo and pursed my lips. “The only others are Heinrich and Einstein.”

  “I already told you what I think about Einstein. And Heinrich has that thing with your brother.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I can’t think straight. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m going to sleep until dinnertime.”

  “You can’t. It’s Monday … critique group day.”

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “You have to. It’ll give you an opportunity to cross off Heinrich, Kell, and Einstein. Maybe.”

  I knew she was right, but that didn’t make me any more excited about going. How long had it been since I’d pulled all-nighters? A million years?

  “Fine. But I’m taking a nap till it’s time to go.”

  AmyJo grabbed my phone and set an alarm. “I turned the volume all the way up. No excuses.”

  “Yes, Mom.” I ushered her out the door. “See you there.”

  Two and a half hours later the alarm blared, causing me to launch myself out of bed and flail around the room searching for it. I finally found it propped against my jewelry box where AmyJo left it.

  I wasn’t rested but I was standing, so I stepped into the shower, where I do my best thinking. I planned how I’d phrase my question about Kell’s alibi. I preferred to cross him off before the meeting, if at all possible.

  After making coffee and a piece of toast, I looked online for the flights Kell could have taken: one departing sometime after the fundraiser at the zoo Sunday night, the other returning early Monday morning, the day of Melinda’s murder.

  I dialed his corporate phone number. I sat at my kitchen table and asked the receptionist to put me through to his office. Instead of using my name, I tried something different this time.

  It worked, because instead of the receptionist taking my name and me
ssage again, Kell’s private secretary answered. “Kell Mooney’s office.”

  I crossed my fingers, hoping I’d remembered the right airline. “I’m calling on behalf of National Airlines. We found a Rolex watch on a recent flight and are checking with all of our first-class passengers to see if they’ve lost one.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Mooney isn’t in right now.”

  I gave her the flight information for the Monday morning flight. “Can you confirm he was on that particular flight? If not, then I don’t need to bother him.”

  “Let me check.”

  While I listened to the hold music, I noticed my tremor was in perfect syncopation with the tune.

  The secretary came back. “Yes, he was on that flight.”

  Taking another wild stab, I said, “That’s good to hear, but I’m a bit confused, looking at this paperwork. I show that his flight from Denver to Chicago was just six hours earlier. Surely that’s incorrect?”

  She paused, then said, “No, that’s right. He was escorting a minor child.”

  I loudly shuffled papers. “I don’t see a second passenger on his itinerary.”

  “The child’s mother bought the ticket.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It was a spring break trip for the girl to visit her dad in Chicago.” The secretary’s voice took on a softness. “The mother couldn’t take her there because at the last minute Mr. Mooney needed her in London for the company. He felt bad, so he escorted the daughter to Chicago, then flew right home. Never even left the airport. The things he does for his employees. Should I have him call you about the watch?”

  “Only if he wants to claim it.” I hung up without giving her any contact information. Let her think I was incompetent. But at least I’d been able to confirm Kell’s alibi, cross him off my suspect list, and be reminded of what a nice guy he was.

  It made it the teensiest bit easier to make the decision to attend my writing group. I bundled my coat around me.

  The complex’s parking lot was busy at this time on a Monday morning, with all the upwardly mobile young professionals on their way to their upwardly mobile careers. Cars moved in and out of parking spaces, half of them sweeping headlights across the lot, half of them dark. That’s what overcast March mornings are like in Colorado. Never quite sure when daylight is.

  My fellow residents and I cautiously picked our way over icy spots and snow drifts. With as much snow as we’d had Saturday night, no matter how fastidiously walks got shoveled and parking lots got plowed, no one could get it all.

  The unlucky commuters without covered spots had to scrape ice from windshields and push off flawless mounds of snow that added almost a foot of height to their cars. They also had to excavate the drifts packed against their tires. As was the habit of most people who lived in snowy climes, nobody thought to allow extra time to do this. There is nothing more karmic—or dangerous—than commuters in a rush who fail to clear the snow from the roof of their car, only to stop suddenly and have it all slide forward onto the windshield, blinding them.

  Some of the complex’s residents were heading toward Espresso Yourself for their daily grind before attempting their daily grind. At least I assumed they were residents. Some, perhaps, were in the midst of their walk of shame after an ill-advised one-night stand. I studied the bodies hunched against the morning chill, snow squeaking and crunching under their feet, to see if I could detect any of these unfortunate souls. But everyone looked the same—cold, cranky, and pressed for time.

  The wind had kicked up and I clutched my celery-colored travel mug of coffee as I stepped from the sidewalk, head lowered against the blowing snow. I heard an engine rev to my left and raised my eyes. An SUV swerved around me at the last second. I stopped, hoping the driver saw my hands-up apology for not watching for traffic, expecting something similar in return. The car sped up, the driver never even glancing my way.

  No acknowledgment at all? And he’d sped up. If this was one of my novels, I would make it clear the driver had purposely tried to run me down. But was this like fiction? Lately the line had kept blurring for me.

  Had someone just tried to run me down? Same as in Dave and Veta’s neighborhood? I thought back to all my jumping at shadows and noises. There were explanations for all of them: Suzanne popping up unexpectedly, rabbits, that stray dog, maintenance men in the complex, jokers writing messages in the dirt on my car. All logical. My imagination was playing tricks on me and working overtime. But none of that eased the knot in my stomach. I hurried to my car, head on a swivel.

  Even though I’d parked only a couple of hours earlier, my windows had iced over. I tramped around to the passenger side to ferret out the long-handled scraper I kept under the seat. I opened the door and saw the gigantic trash bag of Goodwill donations. Still there. I could drop it off on my way. I situated my coffee in the cupholder and then thrashed around, feeling with one arm for the scraper. I found it, dragged it out, and dropped my messenger bag on the floor in front of the Goodwill donation.

  I worked up a sweat scraping, then slipped into the driver’s seat. Thanks to Ozzi’s gift of ground coffee from the grocery store, I took a sip of coffee and checked the clock on the dashboard. No time to swing by Goodwill after all.

  I backed out of my parking space, bumping over the icy moguls I hoped would melt before July, and waited for a steady line of cars to pass. I took the opportunity to sip until a good Samaritan in a dark SUV finally took pity and allowed me in. I hurriedly replaced my travel mug in the cupholder and swung into the lane, at the same time trying to bring up my hand in thanks. I hoped they saw, since I couldn’t see them through their tinted windows.

  As I drove through the parking lot, I thought about the SUV that had almost hit me. The driver didn’t really try to run me down, did he? We’d never made eye contact, so maybe he never actually saw me. Ozzi got that way sometimes when he was thinking about work. More than once I’d seen him let a perfectly chilled beer get warm while he stared into space, mulling some computer problem. When he returned to earth, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gone. Maybe this snowy morning was like that for some other driver. I hoped they would snap out of it before something bad happened.

  The streets became more and more major, yet not completely plowed, as I made my way through Aurora. I loved the diversity of the area. Colorado is very Caucasian, but my zip code had bodegas, Asian markets, authentic ethnic restaurants of every stripe, and was home to a huge Muslim population. Of course, it also had a notorious red-light district, plenty of meth houses, and an often large and unruly homeless population.

  I wondered again about Daryl living behind Espresso Yourself. What was his story? How long had he been there? How long had he and Suzanne been friendly? What could I do for him?

  I reached the freeway on-ramp and began to slow down sooner than I normally would because of the icy road. I crawled to a stop behind three cars at the ramp meter. I sipped my coffee. Still half-full, and I was halfway to Kell’s. Perfect. More cars lined up behind me.

  Was that the same SUV that almost hit me? I peered through my rear-view mirror but couldn’t tell. Probably not. SUV is the new black, I decided. The new fashion vehicle. They were everywhere and probably all had those tinted windows.

  The meter turned green for me and I gently stepped on the gas. My rear end fishtailed on the slick pavement, coffee jostled in the cupholder while I got a rush of adrenaline. The freeway was crowded but flowed smoothly, since people were taking it easy with the road conditions. “Slow and steady wins the race,” I reminded myself.

  As I glanced back to check the freeway traffic, I saw the SUV behind me. I merged, took control of the lane like I was taught, and glanced behind to change lanes. The SUV was still right behind me. I changed lanes again. So did the SUV.

  Almost as soon as I was traveling in my comfort zone—fast, but not overly so, in the fast lane—I came up on a Volkswagen driving well below the speed limit, even for the imperfect conditions.
Texas plates. Figures. Scared of a little snow. I tapped my brakes but got a tad too close to their rear bumper. Ozzi would once again accuse me of being too aggressive, but I simply wanted to make sure they knew I was there and not entirely happy with their choices this morning.

  They didn’t seem to care what I thought, so I passed them on the right and slipped back into the fast lane. So did the SUV. Weird. I flashed back to my book Pursued to Death, where the killer stalked my poor victim mercilessly until finally running her off the road. But that was set in a rural area, not a busy city freeway. But still. If somebody caused an accident and then sped off, I doubted any of these people would know what had happened. Everyone was in their own little bubble. The SUV was creeping me out, though, always behind me that way.

  I increased my speed in the fast lane to pass a Honda traveling in the lane to my right, then eased in front of it, almost equidistant between it and a Subaru hatchback.

  The SUV slid in behind the Honda even though the fast lane was clear. I watched to see if they were in the process of easing over toward the exit coming up. Nope. Knuckles white on my steering wheel, I decided to take the exit. I made a last-second dash for it, making other drivers hit their brakes as I stole the merge. I slid across two lanes to the off-ramp.

  My coffee flew from the inadequate cupholder and bounced off the bag for Goodwill. The lid flew the opposite direction. “Dammit!” Warmth from the coffee spread over my right knee.

  At the bottom of the exit, the light was green at the cross street. Knowing I couldn’t stop to make a turn without sliding, I continued straight through, to the on-ramp on the other side to get back on the freeway. Smart, I thought. I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. I’d have to remember this for my next book. I merged back into freeway traffic, which was a bit lighter now, it seemed. I glanced back to change lanes.

  The SUV was behind me again.

  I peered through my mirror. Was it the same car? My imagination had been working overtime this past week. Was this another example? My eyes darted back and forth between it and the traffic in front of me. It seemed like the same one, but I was heading toward the Stepford suburbs where every soccer mom drove an SUV. I glanced to my left. Blue SUV. In front of it a green one. Two more black ones. Another blue one up ahead to my right.