Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  But none of them with tinted windows like that. My imagination flared and my heart raced. That SUV was definitely following me. My tremor increased with my adrenaline and I gripped the wheel tighter. I made another last-minute, fishtailing dart across traffic to the next exit. It might have been the only time in my life I wished a cop would pull up behind me. I had to swerve to the right around the traffic slowing at Hampden Avenue.

  The light was red, but I barely slowed as I turned right, glancing left to look for cars coming through the intersection. The visibility was bad, but I didn’t see anyone and prayed it was true. I slid across two lanes and held my breath that any cars coming would see me. A blast of a horn told me they did and were none too happy about it.

  If I kept going west, I’d hit University in a few miles. I could take it north, toward Lance’s precinct. I was sure there was probably a closer police station, but I knew exactly where Lance’s was. And if he was there, even better.

  The roads were better plowed on the west side of the city, or perhaps they hadn’t received as much snow, and I could see large patches of asphalt. I breathed a bit easier as I dodged through traffic, glad most people were at work or school already. It made it easier to travel. But also easier for a stalker to spot me.

  The traffic light ahead changed and cars slowed in front of me. I stepped on the brake but it didn’t depress. I wasn’t sliding, but I was hurtling toward the cars at full speed. A sedan with a Baby on Board sign loomed in front of me. In desperation, I stomped my foot on the brake so hard I thought it would go through the floorboard. I yanked the wheel to the right to avoid a rear-end collision, and barely missed both the sedan and the honking Jeep in the right lane.

  Everything was at a standstill at the red light, my car angled across two lanes. I released my white-knuckled grip on my steering wheel and felt around the brake pedal until I found shards of a smashed celery-colored travel mug. I refused to look at the driver of the Jeep, already knowing he was livid, and dropped the plastic pieces on the floor in front of the Goodwill bag.

  The light changed and I pulled the rest of the way in front of the Jeep. I drove slowly, still shaky. Glancing around, I didn’t see the SUV. I’d lost them.

  As I traveled past the businesses on the opposite side of the intersection, a blush crept up my neck even though I was alone in the car. That SUV hadn’t been following me. Just a coincidence. My overactive imagination. The stress of the last week. I exhaled slowly, sending up thanks that I hadn’t hit anyone but furious at myself, and at that crazy SUV, for terrifying me.

  Coming up on University forced a decision. To the right, to Lance’s precinct? To the left, to Kell’s and the critique group? I checked behind and still didn’t see any sign of the SUV.

  Left.

  I bumped into Kell’s driveway ten minutes late.

  Twenty-Five

  Writing group was a bust. I suffered the acute humiliation of waltzing in with coffee soaked into my right pantleg from knee to ankle. We were all awkward around each other. AmyJo tried to cheerlead us through breakfast, but none of us knew what to say. The weight of the last week smothered us. We gulped down food, then raced through each perfunctory critique and response, no unnecessary words. Even worse, I didn’t get to cross Einstein or Heinrich off my list because neither of them showed up.

  I returned to my apartment just in time to see a police officer protect Suzanne’s head as he guided her into the back of a squad car. The officer glared at me, and then he and his partner got in and drove away. Suzanne stared straight ahead.

  I dialed my brother as I raced inside. Voicemail.

  “Lance, when you get this, call me right away. They just arrested Suzanne.”

  I paced around my apartment trying to figure out what to do or who to call. Suzanne needed me to find the real killer before this went any further. But how?

  I grabbed my list of suspects. Einstein, Heinrich, and Henry.

  I removed the business card tacked to my kitchen corkboard and dialed the phone. I asked for Detective Ming.

  “Campbell.”

  “Detective Campbell? There’s been a mistake. I asked for Detective Ming.”

  “Who is this?”

  I debated hanging up. “It’s Charlee Russo. Did you have Suzanne Medina arrested? She didn’t kill Melinda Walter.”

  “Oh?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Then who did?” I heard his chair squeak under his bulk as if he’d put his feet up on his desk.

  “Melinda’s husband, Henry.” I said emphatically.

  Campbell barked out an ugly guffaw. “Nope. Airtight alibi.”

  “Just like Suzanne.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” he laughed again. “At your storage unit with you.”

  “My investigation—”

  “Your what?”

  “Well, I’m not investigating, per se, but as you can imagine, this has hit me quite close to home, and … ” If there were such a thing as irritated breathing, I was hearing it on the other end of the phone, so I rushed on. “Everyone who had access to my manuscript had means and opportunity. Some had motive, and I’ve been trying to ascertain”—ascertain? I sound like Hercule Poirot—“who had alibis and who did not.”

  I held my breath, half expecting him to tell me to sit tight because I was the one without an alibi and I might have lied to a detective and they’d be right over with the handcuffs and the dreaded perp walk.

  Instead, Campbell said, “Well, aren’t you just the cutest little Miss Marple.”

  That stung. I was much closer in age to Nancy Drew.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” he said. “What have you found out? Who have you exonerated? Give me your briefing.”

  Momentarily flustered that he wanted to hear my thoughts, I searched my notes. I flipped through the pages of the yellow legal pad and tried to read through all the scribblings. “I don’t think Melinda killed herself. My boyfriend Ozzi was at work. His sister Bubbles, er, Beulah, spent the night with their mom. Dave and Veta Burr had people over and then went to bed, which I know isn’t a good alibi, but really, they didn’t have any motive to kill her and their garage door squeaks so loudly you probably could’ve heard it all the way to Kansas if they left that night, so I crossed them off.” I realized I was talking too fast, which might sound like babbling, but if I had his attention even for a minute, I wanted to keep it. Maybe I could even convince him it wasn’t Suzanne. “His boss told me Joaquin, that mechanic, had an alibi. And in my critique group, Kell was on a plane from Chicago, Sheelah was in the emergency room and then at her dentist’s office, AmyJo was babysitting her nieces, and Jenica won tickets and backstage passes to the Fillmore Theater. Oh, and Cordelia’s security system was on all night. And cameras. They show nobody came or went. And Queue Quaid has an alibi too, as you know.” I kept quiet about Einstein and Heinrich.

  “You’ve done good work, Miss Marple, but we knew all that within forty-eight hours of the murder.”

  I wanted to say yes, but that’s your job, but I bit my tongue.

  “There were other suspects and, as you know, actually an arrest this morning,” he added.

  It felt like he was playing with me. He was the quarterback and I was the football he was nonchalantly tossing in the air.

  “Yes. But I’m trying to tell you, I know for a fact Suzanne Medina didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You know this for a fact, eh?”

  “I told you, we were together that night.”

  “So you did.”

  “That only leaves Melinda’s husband.” I wanted to ask about Heinrich and Einstein but couldn’t bring myself to do so.

  Campbell paused. “We’ve arrested someone. And it wasn’t Henry Walter. Draw your own conclusion.”

  “But what about—”

  “This has been loads of fun, Ms. Russo, but my coffee break is over, so I must—”

  “Wait. On that website about Melinda and her rejections, the one Q is the webmaster for, there a
re a ton of deleted comments that probably describe really nasty things people want—wanted—to do to Melinda.” I had a twinge of remorse. “Have you looked into them?”

  “Ms. Russo, whether you want to believe it or not, we are good at our jobs over here. Been doing them a long time.”

  Maybe so long you’re jaded and burned out?

  “But did you?”

  “Of course we did. Your manuscript was nowhere to be found on that server. Nobody on the forum read anything about mercury poisoning, at least not from your manuscript.”

  “Aha! So somebody could have—”

  “A good detective doesn’t grasp at straws. Miss Marple would know that.” He let out a nasty chuckle.

  “But—”

  “One last time, Ms. Russo. We made an arrest. Goodbye.”

  But the person you arrested didn’t do it.

  Twenty-Six

  I stared into the distance for a long time after my conversation with Detective Campbell, finally drawing a line through Henry Walter’s name on my suspect list. I fiddled with the pen, trying to picture Suzanne, his suspect, or Einstein or Heinrich, mine, killing Melinda. I couldn’t do it.

  My new art museum postcard was hanging crooked so I went over to straighten it, accidentally knocking it to the floor. I picked it up and studied it. When I’d brought it home and taped the art mat to it, I’d obscured some of the written description of the exhibit. So instead of reading about the missing German art, I simply saw missing German and thought of Heinrich.

  When I’d first chosen the postcard, both of the reproductions on it seemed to convey jaunty characters from the flapper era. But now, the cigar-smoker in Wilhelm Lachnit’s work stared straight at me with black, beady eyes, and his wife seemed indifferent to him, looking away even though they were side by side leaning out the window. In the other work, the one by Hans Christoph, the man was cutting his eyes to the side, decidedly shifty. His spouse’s eyes could barely be seen. The man looked like Heinrich, with his round glasses and ever-present cigar.

  Was the man in the painting mocking me? I moved the postcard sideways. His eyes didn’t follow me like they would in a bad movie, but something still bugged me about it. He totally looked like Heinrich, but was Heinrich married? Had he ever been married? I racked my brain trying to remember if he’d ever said anything about a wife or ex-wife. Or, really, anything about his personal life. I knew he’d been an English teacher—more specifically, Jenica’s English teacher, which seemed like it should be significant but I couldn’t figure out why. I came up empty on any other facts, which led me again to wonder why Heinrich wouldn’t tell me why he’d missed critique group that morning. He was hiding something, but what?

  I knew I had to confront him in person, but I stopped and started to leave half a dozen times, each time with a new question, each time plopping onto my bed with a throaty groan. Was it wise for me to confront a potential murderer this way? Was this how I wanted to be dressed when they found my newly murdered body? How was it possible I knew a murderer? Could an English teacher really be a murderer? Should I drag someone with me? Should I call Lance or Detective Campbell or Ming and tell them what I was going to do?

  It probably wasn’t wise for me to confront Heinrich like this, but I didn’t have a choice. Lance couldn’t talk to me about it, and the detectives wouldn’t talk to me, but I had to help Suzanne. I thought about dragging Ozzi, AmyJo, or Sheelah with me, but I knew they’d try to talk me out of it. And as much as I thought I needed to do this, I was afraid it would be too easy for someone to dissuade me.

  I stood and stared at myself in the full-length mirror. “You have to do this, Charlee.” I buttoned a red plaid flannel shirt over my comfy jeans and boots.

  As a nod to good sense, I left a note addressed to Lance on my kitchen table. Then I used the GPS app on my phone to guide me to Heinrich’s house.

  I didn’t know whether to hope he’d be there or not.

  I saw him through the glass on his front door, talking on his kitchen phone. I debated whether to ring the doorbell or not, but my decision was made for me when he turned and saw me. His shoulders slumped and he lowered the phone to his thigh. He finally motioned me in. He was speaking in German but gestured he’d be finished soon, waving me into the living room to wait for him. I walked in and stood there, realizing I could be in the house of a murderer. What in the world was I thinking? I glanced around the room and only saw weapons, like I was in some kind of weird real-life game of Clue. Candlesticks on the mantle. An antique gun—that might not even be an antique—mounted above the mantle. Cords from the window blinds to strangle me. I noted fireplace tools I could lunge for if I needed a weapon. I sidled closer to them.

  Through the other doorway, I could see into the kitchen. Knife block filled with a dozen presumably sharp knives. Kitchen shears on the counter by the sink and, next to it, a tube of Glu-Pocalypse.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Heinrich came up behind me, making me jump. “You have Glu-Pocalypse.”

  He adjusted his eyeglasses, then wiggled his butt. He pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth and sang, “If your force field comes unsealed, if your cup needs to be healed.” He paused, trying to remember the jingle. “If your kitchen faucet drips, or upholst’ry got some rips, Glu-Pocalypse! Glu-Pocalypse! Glu-Poc-A-Lypse!” He punctuated the last four syllables by jabbing his cigar into the air. He returned the cigar to his mouth and said, “Ja, I have Glu-Pocalypse. Did you come all this way to borrow some?”

  I shook my head and he stared, all the while chomping on his cigar. “I think you know why I’m here, Heinrich.” I tried to keep my voice steady and squeak-free.

  He continued to stare and then abruptly turned his back on me and stomped out of the living room.

  I leaped toward the fireplace, wondering which unseen weapon he was going after. Regardless, my best defense was the poker, which I grabbed in my right hand. I quickly shifted it to my left so I could dig the phone from the pocket of my jeans. I dialed the nine and the one, then switched hands again. The poker needed to be in my dominant hand. I wished I’d left goodbye forever I love you notes for my mom and Ozzi.

  I also wished I’d never come here. Easily remedied. I was heading for the front door just as Heinrich came back in the living room. In his hand he held, not a weapon, but a photo album.

  He saw me clutching the poker and my pre-dialed phone and shook his head. He spoke in German. When I didn’t react, he translated. “You’ve got some balls.”

  He took a step toward me. I raised the fireplace poker, but he moved to the couch. If he was worried by my defensive pose, he didn’t show it. He sat with the photo album on his lap.

  “I’ll tell you what I told the police.”

  “Was it the truth? Because that’s all I’m in the mood for right now.”

  “Ja.” He flipped pages of the album until he found a particular photo. He turned the book and motioned me to sit next to him.

  I brought the poker with me and perched myself at the edge of the couch, poised to jump up if necessary.

  He pointed to a teenage girl in a photo. She had long dark hair and matching dark eyes that I knew any man would lose himself in.

  I cut my eyes at him, but he shook his head. “Nothing like that. I teach ESL, and Francesca here, one of my students, was in Mercy Hospital having a baby. I was there with her.”

  My bewildered brain rattled. Heinrich had never spoken of teaching English to foreigners and he sure as hell didn’t seem like the nurturing Lamaze type. On the other hand, he would love telling a helpless pregnant girl what to do and when to do it. I didn’t know what to think so I simply stared at him, mouth open, trying to keep my brain from rattling too loud.

  Heinrich flipped through more pages of the album, smiling at the faces staring back at him.

  I stood and waved my hand vaguely at the photo album. “So that’s what you told the police?”

  “Ja.”

  I returned the fire
place poker to the holder. “Is it the truth?”

  “Of course.” Heinrich closed the album and placed it on an end table. His landline in the kitchen rang. It startled me so much I almost pressed the final digit in my aborted 911 call. I erased the numbers as Heinrich headed to the kitchen. He called over his shoulder, “Close the door behind you.”

  I was thrilled to take his hint. I shoved my phone in my pocket and rooted around in my bag for my keys. As I searched my bag I heard Heinrich’s voice, but the only word I recognized was “Thaddeus.”

  Had Einstein called him? It seemed Einstein was the only suspect left on my list.

  I finally located my keys. When I got to the car, I locked the doors, drove half a block, parked, and then looked up the number for Mercy Hospital. I asked to be connected to the maternity ward. I knew Francesca would be long gone, but maybe one of the nurses had been on duty last Sunday night. The nurse who answered the phone was in fact on duty but didn’t remember any German man with any of the patients. She asked two other nurses, but nobody remembered him.

  Heinrich’s alibi didn’t hold up. Not even a little.

  I whipped out of his neighborhood, finding a familiar arterial that I knew led to the interstate. I got off at University and drove all around, searching for a parking place on the DU campus.

  I gave up and circled back to park illegally at a nearby Wendy’s. If I was still alive after this, I’d buy something as rental on their parking place. I didn’t really think Einstein would murder me with so many people around, so I set my taste buds for a single with cheese, small fries, and a chocolate Frosty. And a probable parking ticket.

  I hurried toward campus, again asking everyone where the physics building was. Again, nobody knew for sure. Some pointed left, some pointed right, but I just kept barreling through until I finally found someone who seemed like they actually knew. They pointed to a familiar-looking building and I went up to the third floor—this time with much less pain. I hoped that would remain the case.