by Liz Turner
“Ah, you’re the dame with from Lakeshore, who’s been sniffing around here,” he said, sounded even more bored than he had before. “What can I do for you?”
“I just need to speak with Ray. Have you his home number?”
“Look, lady, Ray’s been on this case for a long time. He needs to get some sleep. How’s about you just call him in the morning and talk to him about it then, eh?”
Margie sighed through her teeth. “It is imperative that I speak to him, you see, sir, I believe that Officer Brighton has gotten-”
The dial tone sounded so loud and so very unmistakable in her ear. “-the wrong man,” she finished in a defeated whisper into the humming phone line.
“Now, what in the world would make you say that, Margie?” A too familiar voice with a very Southern accent asked. It was voice she had heard in her dreams every night since stepping foot in Bristol. Margie turned, still holding the receiver of the phone in her hand.
“Pierre?” Camelia whispered, her face turning egg-shell white as she stared at him. He was holding two knives in his hands, those too-big waiter’s gloves still on his hands. “Your voice-”
“Come now, ladies, there's no need to be so uncivil.” He took a slow step forward, the knife edges glittering like stars in his hands. The French accent, the nervous fingers, they were gone, replaced with coldness. Margie’s eyes locked onto the knives, grabbing Camelia’s hand and pulling her behind the payphone. “I just would like to talk to you about the implications of what you are suggesting.”
Pierre scraped the blades over one another, the metal-on-metal screech carving into Margie’s ears. “Why did you kill Mr. McCarthy?”
“Oh now, don’t start with that. That’s like opening a book right in the middle and starting to read there. I don’t owe you a lick of explaining.” He advanced again; he was playing with them. There was not a hint of compassion in him, nothing remaining that was human. “Mr. McCarthy as you call him had a bit of a history with me. It was best for everyone if you never know what that bit of history is.”
Pierre slid forward like a well-oiled machine. Margie pushed Camelia away, screaming for her to run as she slammed the receiver of the phone into Pierre’s face. He screamed that same word he’d whispered when he’d bumped her foot that night. It was him. It was. Pierre had killed Mr. McCarthy; he’d jumped Camelia that night, and he’d let Jacob take the blame for it. There was no an ounce of human in him.
Margie pulled back, slamming the receiver down onto Pierre’s right wrist. She heard a crunch as the bone snapped. Pierre screamed, rearing back with his left hand. Margie threw herself to the right. He missed by inches, the knife slamming into the payphone with a metallic whine.
“You stupid bitch, you broke my hand!” He yelled, his eyes crazed and hungry. “Now I’m going to kill you and track down that friend of yours and kill her too.” He lifted his knife overhead, ready to slam the blade down into her side. There was a wicked smile on his face, his eyes empty of everything but vengeance. He was mad, completely mad, and he was going to kill her.
Pierre never got the chance.
Chapter 22
A gunshot rang through the night, loud and bright. Pierre caved around the wound, tumbling backward and landing with a final thud on the pavement. Margie screamed, every ounce of her fear tearing its way through her throat as she stared at the body of the waiter.
“Margie!” Ray yelled, his voice barely audible above the ringing in her ears. “Are you alright?”
There were tears pouring down Margie’s cheeks that she didn’t remember crying; her hip hurt where she fell. But she was okay. She was alive! “I’m going to have nightmares about this for weeks, but I’m fine, Ray. Why are you here?”
“I went looking for you after I realized that the knife Jacob had been ‘brandishing’ at you was part of a catalog home set of knives. Mr. Carter has much better taste in knives than that. So I did a little digging. It turns out Pierre Bourgeois died under mysterious circumstances in his hotel room last spring. He was found with a fake $100 bill and a some half-finished fake documents.”
“So who was that?”
Ray was heaving, his breath coming hard and fast in his lung. He leaned over a little, bracing himself on his knees. “Jesse James. A mobster cut out of the family for some foolish pranks he pulled. Seems like he might have been in on Larry’s drug running too.”
Margie stared at him. The familiar face was turned away watching the body of Pierre- Jesse. He kicked away the knife the body still held with a booted foot, Ray’s revolver pointed at his chest, ready to fire if he moved again. Margie got up from the pavement, brushing herself off.
“How did you find us?” Margie studied her clothing for damage but luckily didn’t find any. She looked everywhere but at Pierre, Jesse, bleeding on the pavement.
Ray shook his head, holstering his gun and pulling his jacket closer around himself. He looked down at Pierre, looking all the world like he was going to be sick. “Never gets easier,” he said, to no one in particular. “I thought I’d gotten away from having to shoot people, moving to a small town, but there’s badness in people everywhere, I suppose.”
Margie pulled on his arm, forcing him to take a step back. Unable to look away, she watched as Pierre’s chest rose and fell with a shallow rhythm. Sirens wailed in the background of her consciousness, and she couldn't seem to take her eyes off of the man lying in the street, losing his lifeblood.
“You saved my life, Ray. Thank you.” Margie said, her eyes watching as Pierre breathed. He wasn’t dead. She wasn’t sure if she was thankful or not.
He nodded, looking down at her face like it was a lifeline. Margie winced away from him. He had something kind of desperate in him. And no matter how hard she tried, Margie felt nothing but friendship for him. But maybe that could be enough for both of them someday. But for now, she would have to hurt him, and she hated it.
“Margie, I-”
“Whatever you are going to say, don’t. I’m short on friends in this place, Ray. I’d not like to be down your friendship as well.” Margie’s voice held a hint of desperation.
Ray nodded, his face falling. “Friends it is then.”
It took everything Margie had in her not to apologize. Perhaps she was learning. She never wanted to apologize for herself ever again.
The cavalry came in, bringing with it sirens and lights, heavy, itchy blankets and questions, notepads and pad, detectives, handshakes. Margie found a bench nearby and sat down, bringing with her a puddle of blankets the EMTs has insisted on wrapping her in.
Camelia, similarly wrapped and missing one of her shoes, sat down beside her. They watched the chaos around them slowly become more and more organized, cleaned, repaired, dispersed. Soon, they were the only two remaining, except a single policeman. The officer was one they both knew from their previous dealings with the Bristol PD, and he offered them a ride home since it was on the way back to his. Margie pretended not to notice when Camelia winked and took the officer’s phone number when he dropped them off.
They both went upstairs together, silent. As soon as Camelia unlocked the door, Margie grabbed a towel and got in the shower. The hot water started to thaw all of the pieces of her heart that had frozen. She still felt cold, but she felt a little better.
Wiping away the steam from the tiny framed mirror, Margie inspected herself for damage. She had a big red mark on her hip that would undoubtedly grow into a nasty black and purple bruise. But she was mostly undamaged. How did she ever get to be so lucky? She’d been attacked twice and had only this to show for it.
Dressing and wrapping her hair up in a hand towel, Margie stepped out onto the balcony where Camelia stood, smoking a cigarette. A long column of gray slid out from between her lips, curling and dispersing in the cool, evening air. It would be high spring soon, and the leaves and flowers would bloom. Margie wanted to see what Bristol looked like, all covered in color instead of still half-buried in winter. She wanted to see wha
t Bristol looked like in the fall too, and the summer. She wanted to see Bristol decked out for Christmas and see what little parades they held for Thanksgiving. She wanted so desperately to stay that her chest felt full of lead.
“It’s like the first night you were here,” Camelia smiled, pointing to where she stood. “You stood there, and I was here, and we talked about how that man died. We wondered who did it.” She was smiling. Camelia was always smiling. Maybe someday, Margie could be as together as Camelia was.
“Now someone else is either dead or nearly dying.” Margie gulped. “Guess nothing has changed.” She would have nightmares for sure. Had it only been a little more than a week? It felt like she had spent half a lifetime here. So much had happened; she had the bruises to prove it too.
“Ray told me that Pierre, or whatever his name is, came to me that night on Canary Street because he saw Ray and I talking together after Larry got arrested. He’d been out washing windows. He thought I was some informant for the police. It was you all along.”
They were silent for a long time, watching the stars slowly rotate. “I don’t want to leave Bristol, Cammy.” Camelia turned toward her and cocked her head, but Margie was too busy studying the way the stars glittered in the black blanket of sky. “I’ve always done what I was supposed to do. Even the city would have been just another route to the same end. Here, this feels like home. I- You heard Mr. Carter. He’d let me keep my job. I’d pay for half of everything and cook too.” Although she knew she was rambling, she couldn’t seem to get herself to stop. “I’ll stay for a bit if you’ll let me until I can find a place of my own-”
Margie didn’t get to finish her rambling; Camelia silenced her by throwing her arms around her waist and squeezing all of the air out of her lungs in a bear hug. Her hip stung in response, but Margie didn’t let go. “Of course, you can stay!” Camelia shouted, her cigarette landing on the floor of the balcony, forgotten. “I was hoping you would say that all along!”
Laughing, Margie wiped tears from her eyes that welled under the strength of Camelia’s acceptance of her plan. “Thank you!”
“Stay forever,” Camelia said, throwing her arms in the air and stepping back. “You can stay forever!”
Margie laughed, “Well, we’ll see. Forever’s a long time.”
Chapter 23
The next day, Margie dialed the phone number of her parent’s home in Lakeshore. Although she was pretty sure her stomach would be in knots for this conversation, she was surprisingly rather calm. She still tangled her fingers around the spiral chord, her heart still skipped a beat when someone picked up, but she was ready.
“Hello?” A distinctly feminine voice asked, curiously, from the other side.
She took a deep breath. “Oh, hello, Mother.”
“Margaret, darling, how are you?” There was a clicking noise in the background, the comfortingly familiar sound of two knitting needles banging together over and over again. Loop, hook, pull. Loop, hook, pull. Clack, clack, clack. Marie had memorized the rhythm a long time ago. She could picture her mother, the phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder, knitting as she spoke.
“I’m well, Mother. I had some crazy things happen to me on my way to the city.” Margie said, her smile obvious in her words.
“Oh, are you heading there now? You’re job starts in three days, doesn’t it?” Clack, clack, clack.
Margie bit her lip between her teeth. “No, Mother, I’m not planning to go to the city. I called the agency that Milly had gotten me a job through and told them I wasn’t planning on ever coming to live there.”
The noise of the knitting needles stopped. “Did you decide to come home then?” There was an edge to her mother’s voice that Margie couldn’t place. But she didn’t quite sound happy. What was it? Fear?
“No, Mother. I’m going to stay here in Bristol. It’s- well, I’ve only been here a week and a half, and it feels like- well, like home. I have a wonderful roommate here, Camelia, and a job waiting tables and learning to cook French food. I know what you-”
“It sounds delightful, dear.”
“You probably think that I’m an idiot for-”
“Of course not,” her mother sounded irritated. It was the same voice she used for the boys when they were trying to pull her attention away from dinner. “I knew all along you weren’t a good fit for the kind of life I chose. I’m just glad you found a way out.” Margie’s mother sighed; she could hear the final clink of the needles as she set them down, probably on the glass table right beside the phone. “I love you, darling, but it would have shocked me had you wanted to follow in my footsteps without at least seeing the world first.”
Margie was speechless, her mother’s words seemed to be someone else’s. “Not that I regret any of you children or your father; I just know you very well, Margaret. You’re not a stay-at-home kind of person. Good for you for figuring it out before it was too late.” A sniffle. Margie could tell by her voice that she was smiling. “I’m proud of you, darling. I did beg you to stay, but what can I say, I never wanted to let go of my baby.”
“Mother, I...”
“Oh, don’t go blubbering at me over the phone, darling. Crying is unbecoming; makes your eyes all splotchy and red. And don’t worry about your father, darling. I’ll talk to him about all of this.”
Margie couldn’t help but laugh. Despite everything, her mother was still her mother.
After a few more moments, with Mother asking a few polite questions about Mr. Carter and Camelia, they hung up, Margie feeling lighter than she had in weeks.
Camelia came in from the balcony, where she had been eavesdropping and sunbathing in a new swimsuit she had bought on their last shopping trip. “That went well.” She sounded hopeful. Camelia wrapped herself in the blanket from the sofa and sat down on the edge, facing Margie with an expectant look on her face.
“Why yes,” Margie said, smiling down at the phone, tears blurring the edge of her vision. “Things are going quite splendidly.”
*** The End ***
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Other Cozy Mystery Books by Liz Turner:
A Cozy Mystery In The Mountains Series:
Murder on the Menu
Trail Mix Murder
Getaway to Murder
Murder at the Festival
A Rare Catch Cozy Mystery Series:
Murder At Starlight Resort
Murder At The Barbecue
A Margie Lauderdale Cozy Mystery Series:
French Cuisine Murder
Wedding Bells & Murder?
About the Author
Liz lives in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies with her husband Rick and Golden Lab, Abbie.
She's had a lifelong penchant for mysteries of all kinds. As a girl, she loved reading Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys stories before graduating on to Agatha Christie books. Figuring out who the culprit was always seemed to capture her imagination. Now she enjoys writing mysteries herself.
Not content to stay in one genre, she has written novels in mystery & suspense/romance and most recently - cozy mysteries.
When she's not writing she is hiking, camping and enjoying the great outdoors.
Connect with her on Facebook, or email her directly at [email protected].
Turn to the next page for a preview of Liz Turner's newest release:
Getaway to Murder - A Cozy Mystery in the Mountains (Book 3)
Preview of: Getaway to Murd
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Prologue
Twenty-four hours before the murders began, the seven people at the center of it all checked into the Larch Luminary Hotel for a mindfulness retreat. Deedee, the twenty-five-year-old who had arranged it all, stood greeting the others in the hallway and helping them check in. Her boss, famed self-help guru Leo Loams had already checked himself in and was busy meditating up in his suite. So it was up to Deedee to reassure the others and ask for forgiveness for his eccentricities.
“He’ll meet you all tomorrow, and explain.” She was saying, to one after another as she escorted them up.
“You know how he is.” She said to Matt, an athletic man with a goatee, shrewd eyes, and a permanent hunch in his shoulders.
“Oh, the things I could tell you,” Matt said with a wink. “But, well, as his lawyer, there’s client confidentiality. I have to maintain a dignified silence.”
“Oh, you can forget about being a lawyer for a couple of days,” Deedee said. “Leo wants us to be happy this weekend. He wants a relaxed time, where we reconnect with nature and each other.”