by Alana Terry
Alexa fingered the plastic cover on the new comforter she’d purchased. “A bed makeover. The daughter said her mother wanted a completely new bedroom but kept saying she couldn’t make up her mind what to get.”
“Mom-speak for she can’t afford what she wants so she keeps dreaming.”
“Probably.” Alexa smiled at the memory of the daughter’s diligence in ensuring her mother’s gift was perfect. “The girl brought me all of her mother’s catalogs one morning before school, and then picked them back up on the way home so I could see the ones her mother had marked.”
“Did you get new sheets and everything?”
Alexa laughed. “You know me well. Sheets, curtains, pillows, blankets—everything. So much fun.”
“Most expensive gift you bought.”
“A gift certificate to Fairbury Automotive.”
“You bought a car?”
Alexa laughed. “Not hardly. It’s the name of our local auto repair place. One gal has a car that’s dying and she can’t afford the repairs. So, I told Hank over at the shop to charge the bill to my card.” She knew the question Suzy wouldn’t ask, so she added, “I bought a new board game for her to play with her daughter so she’d have something to open.”
Suzy’s voice dropped to a suspiciously husky tone. “Alexa?”
“Hmmm?”
“Thank you for being you.”
EVERY DECEMBER, THE temptation of Greenwich Village nearly overcame her. The history, the diversity, and the energy of the area tempted her in ways she never could explain. Brick buildings, historic homes, and townhouses on tree-lined streets called to her. In fact, it often felt as though someone nestled a piece of Fairbury in the middle of New York City. One could ignore the occasional sleek new building with the twist of a head. She had once read that Greenwich Village is a continental experience similar to walking the streets of Paris and had immediately booked a flight to test the assertion.
And the real estate. Despite knowing she would likely never move, the search and the dream thrilled her enough to last until the next year. She scoured the papers and the internet and made a list of properties to visit. She wandered in and out of shops and properties on the east side as she crisscrossed her way through the Village.
By the end of the day, her arms ached from carrying packages and her feet begged for a long soak in the marble tub of her hotel room at the Warwick. She supervised the loading of her packages out of her taxi and onto a luggage trolley, feeling somewhat foolish at the sheer volume of her purchases. The bellhop smiled as he wheeled it into the elevator.
“Nice day shopping, ma’am?”
A deep, gentle Texas drawl surprised her. His flaming red hair, deep green eyes, and liberal spattering of freckles on his face screamed for a thick Irish brogue—as a tenor. Shaking herself out of her ridiculousness, she nodded. “My annual trip. I enjoy it.”
She gave her room number and he grinned. “You’re Miss Alexa! I can’t believe I got to meet you. My little sister will be so excited. She’s a big fan.” He blushed, making his face look even more blotched as he tried to save face. “I don’t mean to imply that I don’t like your books or anything—just don’t read mysteries.”
“That’s quite all right. I don’t imagine that everyone does. I certainly don’t.”
She watched as the young man started to ask why and stopped himself. Alexa respected his friendliness, interest, and the self-restraint that kept him from succumbing to his interest. “You are curious why I don’t read mysteries.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to ask, but now I’m really glad I didn’t. I think I know why.”
Alexa glanced at him sharply and smiled. “You write.”
All the way to her room, they talked “shop” and enjoyed the sort of macabre jokes that would unnerve the most levelheaded of people. By the time they unloaded the trolley and had her purchases put out of the way, Alexa thought she had a reasonably accurate picture of Shane the bellhop. As she passed him his tip, she gave him a verbal one as well. “Shane, develop your characters. Make them real. They need to be alive, breathe, bleed, laugh, and cry. They need to feel fear and anger. Scenes are important and technical accuracy imperative. However, if your characters are the cardboard cutouts on the stage of your novel, all the scenery and originality won’t help.”
Shane’s eyes lit with surprise. “How did you—”
“Simple. You never mentioned people. You joked about murder, places, situations, but you didn’t once share an oddity about a character. You actually didn’t mention anything about anyone.”
With an exaggerated shake of hands, Shane rolled the trolley back toward the elevator, and Alexa absentmindedly closed her door. Talking about poisons had given her an idea. She flicked up the screen of her laptop, typed in her password, and pulled up the current page of her manuscript. As she scrolled back to reread the scene with the light bulb, her fingers hovered over the keys, ready to change it but stopped. Would the police consider it suspicious? Discouraged, she opened a new document to work on the next scene.
She wrote without stopping for changes or corrections. Occasionally that happened, though not as often as people seemed to think. Out of the blue, an entire scene nearly wrote itself using her as a sort of stenographer. After the first few sentences, Alexa lost herself in the world of her novel.
White clouds of whipped cream cheese frosting coated each silver-wrapped cake as Eliza meticulously frosted her confections. She created small pictures with miniature candies on each one—a flower, star, snowflake, dollar sign. She even managed a treble clef for her piano student. The ideas flowed endlessly.
A sound outside her backdoor caught her attention. That darn cat! She was sick of the neighbor’s tiger—er, cat. Eliza picked up her broom to chase him away, but a knock on the door arrested her attention. She glanced at the clock.
Whipping off her apron, she rushed to the door, smoothing her hair as she went. A short, balding man smiled back at her. “Hey there, Eliza. Got another package for you. Your sister in Arizona sure sends you a lot of stuff. I don’t know where you put it all!”
Eliza blushed. She ate it all. Her sister wrapped dried beans, boxes of crackers, and occasionally, a bottle of Starbuck’s Mocha Frappuccino—anything to keep the doorbell ringing. “She just likes to share her life in Arizona with me. I give most of it away. Hold on there, Frank. I have something for you.”
Eliza forced herself to walk slowly and sedately as she retrieved the cupcake she had made for him. She grabbed a napkin from the nearby basket and set the perky little Christmas confection on the snowy, white paper napkin. The backdoor stood slightly ajar. She gave it an impatient kick and grabbed the thermos of hot coffee she had waiting—as usual.
Frank made appropriate appreciative murmurs and thanked her. He lingered a moment before turning to resume his route. She sighed and shut the door. A glance through her picture window showed him nibbling on the cupcake and sipping his coffee as he moved to the next house.
She knew he loved her cupcakes. She made them every year. In fact, all of her friends looked forward to her holiday cupcakes, complete with specialized decorations and almond cream cheese frosting.
She finished decorating a bubble car on the cupcake for her mechanic before she glanced out the window once more. Frank should walk past at any moment now. When he didn’t pass, she leaned against the window, glancing in both directions. She almost missed him.
Face down in the Kazinski’s yard lay Frank. Eliza snatched up her phone, her hand shaking as she dialed 9-1-1. “Something’s wrong with my Fra—mailman.”
Alexa started as her phone rang. When Joe’s voice came over the line, she teasingly chastised him. “You scared me to death. I was just writing the scene in my book where the next person dies and someone calls 911 and then this phone rang!”
“Well, that’s probably more enjoyable than what I’m about to do. The chief wants to know why you’re looking at property in New York.”
�
��Because you told me to do what I always do. I look at available properties in Greenwich Village every year. I wouldn’t have done it this year—not with Chief Varney suspicious about every move I make. I thought it would make me look bad, but you told me—”
Joe’s voice sounded as frustrated as she felt. “Well, I didn’t know you had an annual date to move! Varney is ready to call the NYPD and have you brought in as a flight risk.”
“How can I be a flight risk when I have not been charged with anything and have cooperated completely—not to mention have solid alibis?”
Joe sighed. “Because we have no leads.”
“It’s almost like he wants me to be guilty just so it can be over.”
“I know it looks that way. I’ve never seen him so unreasonable. I think it’s more like the teacher’s pet. Teachers are sometimes hardest on their favorites.” He coughed. “Wait, you said you were working on the next murder in your book. What is it?”
The hair on her neck rose as goose bumps erupted all over her. “I—I’m not telling anyone what is in my book anymore. I’m protecting not only me, but on the off-chance that someone tries to execute another one of my murders, the potential victim. I’m convinced that someone overheard me talking to the chief about my light bulb incident. I told him I was going to use it, and maybe a reader figured out how I might do it—you know, someone who knows my work and maybe how I think.”
“That’s my working theory.”
“I had planned to change some of the details but I just hadn’t done it yet, so maybe....” A new thought occurred to her. “Hey, that reminds me. Can I do that now—change what I want changed—or will that look bad?”
“Save a copy so you don’t look like you’re hiding anything, but just asking makes a difference.” Joe asked about her itinerary and groaned as she mentioned shopping for a dress for the opera and a few more book signings. “Don’t you ever get tired of those?”
“Truthfully, yes. It isn’t my idea of fun to say thank-you in six hundred new ways, to sign my name repeatedly until I try to write the date somewhere and my name ends up on the paper instead.”
“What about the opera? Do you go voluntarily? Who do you go with?”
Alexa laughed. “I go alone. I enjoy it. And of course,” she teased, “it’s a great chance to dress up.”
Even through the phone, she could almost see and feel his smile. She agreed to call before she left the city and disconnected the call. She had a scene to write.
THE NEXT MORNING, DRESSED in a shirtwaist, skirt, shawl, and with a wintery dark straw hat, Alexa signed book after book, chatting amiably with her readers. As usual, there were questions about her attire, and to James’ visible relief, she fielded them without incident. Once when she’d been battling a cold, she had lost patience with a reader and had retorted, “I’m curious to know why you’re wearing your outfit. Is it because you like to look ridiculous or is it because Madison Avenue decided you should?”
The woman had been gracious and forgiving when Alexa rushed to apologize, genuine tears flooding her eyes. How the incident never became public, she didn’t know, but Alexa was grateful. James, however, always panicked on days when long lines of curious readers pounded her with questions. She couldn’t blame him—not really.
“We’re good, James. Feel free to take yourself to lunch.”
“What kind of obsessive controlling agent would I be if I left you here?”
Despite James’ reputation for charging more and offering more personalized service to the few authors he deigned to represent, Alexa also knew he paid her even more attention than most and was not naïve enough to assume it was due to her value as a client alone. His job was simply a convenient excuse to spend more time with her.
“I’ll have to sic my personal bodyguard on you.”
“You have a personal bodyguard?”
“I had a police escort to a place to stay and the airport—oh and he checked up on me last night.”
James rolled his eyes. “Freaky.”
“But my agent babysitting me at signings isn’t?”
“Sounds perfectly natural to me.”
“It would.”
At one o’clock, Alexa gratefully accepted an escort from the signing tables, took a taxi to the nearest deli, and ordered lunch. She savored each bite of her onion bagel and minestrone soup, ignoring the curious glances sent her way by other diners. She finished, thanked the girl behind the counter, left the deli, and hailed a taxi. Shopping time.
As usual, she saved her favorite store for last. The chic little boutique had been her greatest find just two years earlier. She loved their clothing. The store was a launch pad for new and upcoming designers worldwide. The owner, a wardrobe visionary herself, created modern twists on vintage designs. Already, Alexa owned two of Silva’s gowns and hoped to leave with a third.
This time Silva recognized Alexa immediately and eagerly displayed her most recent creations. Several entranced Alexa. “Oh, you do have to make this hard. Every year you just get better.”
Silva’s eyes took in Alexa’s appearance, her surprise evident. “And have you joined the theater? What’s with the nineteenth century bit?”
“You know I wear what I like. I found the original to this on display in a museum.”
“It belongs there.”
Alexa shook her head. “You shouldn’t be surprised. It’s warm, graceful, feminine—everything I love in a dress.”
Silva sniffed her disagreement and then sighed, clearly not impressed. “Fine. I’ll show you. This year I made a dress just for you. I even fit it to your measurements from last year—crazy, I know. But you were the inspiration. You must at least try it on so I can see it on you.”
“Even though I have disgraced it by wearing this?”
“Yeah. Even though you’re wearing that.” Silva pulled out a garment bag as she spoke. “A Pellegrini photograph of a ball gown—saw it on Google—inspired me. The original was all white with a white cape, but I envisioned you in this green. You’ll look like a water sprite.”
The dress had not even been extricated from the garment bag before Alexa knew she had to have it. As she tried it on, clouds of billowing chiffon swirled around her ankles in diaphanous layers. The cape buckled with a mother of pearl clasp on one shoulder. As she whirled about the room, Alexa almost wish she had a ball to attend. Dancing a waltz in a dress like this...
She spent the rest of her afternoon at a day spa getting a manicure, pedicure, massage, facial, and of course, her hair styled for the evening’s activities. She found herself giving Silva’s instructions for the up-do necessary to pull off the ensemble. “I want large curls—most of the hair piled on top in curly masses, but one long droopy large curl hanging on the right side. No skinny tendrils. Let’s go bold and with body.”
When Alexa stepped from her cab that evening, she was dressed more formally than many of the other patrons, but she hardly noticed. A little girl attending with her grandparents gasped and asked timidly, “Are you a princess?”
Alexa swayed, her skirts swishing ever so slightly. She winked. “No, but isn’t it fun to pretend that you are?”
Chapter 11
JOE MET HER AT HER gate. Alexa wasn’t sure what to think when she stepped into the terminal and saw him leaning against a pillar, waiting for her. Something about his face both relaxed and puzzled her. “Joe? What are you doing here? Am I in trouble again?”
“No. The chief wants to see you immediately—says he owes you an apology. Also, I took your car home the day you left. No one could come get me, and you did say—”
She brushed off his explanation by handing him her baggage checks. Something in his eyes still unnerved her. “If everything is ok, why do you look like everything is wrong?”
“There’s been another murder. The chief is convinced that she’s responsible for the last one too.”
Alexa sank onto her suitcase near a wall and dropped her head in her hands. The relief she had felt kn
owing she was no longer a suspect dissolved into anguish to know someone else had died. “And what makes the chief so sure?”
“Well, she has all of your books on her bookshelf, she’s an admitted fan, and there is some computer evidence I really can’t share. Suffice it to say, Wilma Vanderhausen won’t be baking any more cupcakes for a very long time.”
Alexa had started to rise, but sat back down on the suitcase, dazed. “Did you really just say cupcakes?”
“Yeesss... Wilma Vanderhausen has been arrested for poisoning her mail carrier, Linda Fletcher, with—”
“Cyanide,” Alexa interjected. “And Mrs. Vanderhausen insists that she doesn’t know how cyanide got into her cupcake. None of the other ones she made for people—family, grandchildren, neighbors, whomever—got sick. Only the one that Linda Fletcher ate shows signs of contamination.”
Joe’s expression told her he knew her trouble. “The 9-1-1 call in your book—that was made by your Wilma?”
She nodded. “Tell the lab to quit checking the cupcakes. The cyanide was in the coffee thermos. You and I both know that cyanide is too bitter to be hidden by a little frosting.”
Joe glanced around them. What he sought, Alexa couldn’t guess. He grabbed her suitcase and tossed it on the luggage trolley before nodding to the door. “Let’s go.”
At the car, he opened the passenger door for her and closed it behind her. She waited as he filled her cargo area with her suitcases and then climbed into the driver’s seat. He pulled out his cellphone once he had the car started and punched a button. Alexa sighed. Another trip would end at the police station rather than at home and in fresh pajamas—annoying, not to mention heartbreaking.
“Bad news, Chief. I think Wilma is innocent.” An exasperated sigh told her what the chief had suggested. “No, I don’t think Alexa Hartfield is guilty either.” He paused as he listened to the chief’s harangue before he said, “I’m bringing her in now. Should be there in an hour.”
Alexa’s mind whirled. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could do this—copy her work almost as she wrote it—but she knew if she didn’t come up with a plausible idea soon, she could be in serious legal trouble. “What time of death?”