Murder Is Where the Heart Is
Two Sisters and a Journalist #2
by Maddie Cochere
Copyright 2015 by Maddie Cochere
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions therof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US copyright Law.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Cover design by Gillian Soltis of Columbus, Ohio
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
Chasing caviar with a double shot of gin killed my stomach.
I suppose the garlic-laden deviled egg the caviar sat so delicately atop could have been the culprit. Maybe the fetid cheese on a buttery cracker committed the crime. No matter what caused my stomach to undulate and threaten to send me to the bathroom for a bout of retching, I was done with the Harrington wedding.
The date my brother Hank lined up for the evening canceled on him, so I had agreed to be his plus one. I thought a night out might be fun, and as I had recently lost ten pounds, I splurged on a new dress for the occasion. My long brown hair fell in waves against the shiny red jersey, and I felt sexy with the plunging neckline. I hoped there would be dancing in store for me at the reception.
It didn’t take long before Hank regretted asking me to accompany him. Instead of choking back tears when the bride sauntered down the aisle, I choked back laughter. Her lacy white dress sported a few rose decals on the skirt and one on each breast. All I could see were rose pasties coming toward me. The organist playing “Here Comes the Bride” drowned out my muffled noise, but Hank’s dirty looks in my direction only further served to fuel my laughter.
When the bride reached the groom, we took our seats. I managed to stop laughing, but a smile remained firmly planted on my face. Hank shoved an elbow into my side, and I struggled to think of something solemn to quell the laughter that was coming to the surface again.
It didn’t work. When the minister asked if anyone objected to the marriage, several of the guys throughout the church coughed and muttered unintelligible words under their breath. I surmised it was a planned prank, but as other guests looked surprised by the outburst, I burst into laughter. Hank nearly broke a couple of my ribs with his elbow.
The photographer’s assistant chose that moment to launch a remote-controlled helicopter with a video camera mounted under the cab. He nearly took off the preacher’s head as he struggled to work the controls. When the preacher took a dive and hit the ground, my laughter escalated to howling with spurts of shrieking mixed in.
Everyone in the church turned to look at me. I tried to say I was sorry, but I was out of control. I had a fleeting moment of remorse when I saw the bride’s face and realized she was near tears, but it wasn’t enough remorse to stop my one-man ruckus.
The bride held back her tears, but I had tears slipping from my eyes as I began to make my way past the guests in our pew. One woman said sharply, “Shame on you,” as I passed, but her admonition only added another layer to my laughter.
After exiting the pew, I turned once again to face the altar in an effort to express an apology to the bride and groom only to see the helicopter zooming toward me. I was now at the die laughing stage. I ran out of the church as fast as my black stilettos could take me.
Hank was furious when he found me leaning against the car after the ceremony.
“What was wrong with you in there?”
“What?” I asked, trying to look innocent.
He clenched his lips tight. I knew he was mad. The groom was a bartender at Parker’s Tavern downtown, and Hank worked with him part-time as a bouncer. I knew I embarrassed him in front of his friend, but I couldn’t help myself.
Besides, I thought it was odd when Hank wasn’t chosen to take the photographs for the wedding. He was a professional photographer, well known in the community, and weddings were his specialty. Considering the helicopter havoc, I was willing to bet his friend would like to reconsider his choice now. I started to giggle again.
Hank was ready to throttle me. “For crying out loud, Jo, do you have any idea how much you embarrassed me? “
I couldn’t stop smiling. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. On their fiftieth wedding anniversary, they’ll laugh about how much fun their wedding was.”
He wasn’t having any of it. “They’re not laughing now. Get in the car.”
We didn’t speak on our way to the Elks Lodge, and he ditched me when we entered the reception hall. In fact, everyone in the room ignored me. I didn’t care. It was easy to ignore everyone right back, because I didn’t know anyone. Hank said the groom lived just outside of Buxley, but the bride was from Oregon. All of the guests appeared to be from out of town, too.
The room was decorated in fall colors. Yellow and orange streamers hung from the ceiling. Candle centerpieces made from chrysanthemums of the same colors adorned each table.
I scoped out the homemade cookies and the wedding cake. Their sugary goodness didn’t appeal to me, so I didn’t fill a plate full of cookies as many of the other guests were doing.
I was aware that some of the women were whispering, and they looked away if our eyes happened to meet. A few men smiled, others frowned, but none approached me. I had obviously made an impression.
Servers staffed a table of hors d’oeuvres intended to hold guests over while we awaited the arrival of the bride and groom. I grabbed a paper plate and took my place in line. I searched the room for Hank and spotted him talking to a familiar face - Mrs. Murgatroyd from Faye’s Dry Cleaning. Both were looking my way, so I gave them a smile and a little wave. Mrs. Murgatroyd’s mouth fell open while Hank glared. They both looked comical, and I almost laughed again.
The line moved. My mouth watered at the sight of the savory delights. I hadn’t eaten all day, and I was famished, but I knew better than to overindulge before dinner. I bypassed the mini potato skins and the crab stuffed mushrooms. I placed a bacon-wrapped jalapeno filled with sausage and cream cheese onto my plate. The mac and cheese lollipops looked disgusting. The sweet and sour meatballs looked and smelled wonderful. I added two meatballs to the stuffed jalapeno.
A bed of crushed ice at the end of the table held trays of cold hors d’oeuvres. I selected a cracker topped with soft cheese before considering the deviled eggs with caviar. I had never eaten caviar before, and now was as good a time as any.
I sat at a table where two young boys played with handheld video games. They were oblivious to my presence until I popped the second meatball into my mouth. One of them scowled and sa
id, “Hey, you got me in trouble.”
My eyes widened. I held back a smile. “I did not,” I said.
“Did too,” he said.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
I leaned forward, stared the kid down, and asked, “How did I get you in trouble?”
“Geez, lady, once you started laughing, I started laughing, too.”
The second boy finally looked up from his game and said, “Me, too.”
The first boy finished his tale of woe. “My mom pinched me to make me stop laughing. It hurt like crazy.” He lifted his shirtsleeve to show a small bruise.
I gave him a look of sympathy and mouthed a silent, “Wow.”
“My mom gave me the death stare,” the second boy said. “That kept me from laughing.”
I pulled my lips in between my teeth and bit down, struggling to hold back laughter.
“Well, you have to admit, the helicopter was pretty funny,” I said. “So was the preacher taking a dive.” I raised one eyebrow, smiled at the boys, and nodded my head to encourage them to agree with me.
The second boy laughed and said, “I know! I’ve never seen a preacher move so fast.”
The first boy put his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, but a sourpuss woman extinguished it for him when she tugged his arm hard enough to lift him out of his chair and whisk him away. The second boy might as well have been tugged, too, because he was gone in a flash.
Left alone with the last of my hors d'oeuvres, I popped the cheese and cracker into my mouth. The taste was reminiscent of the smell of Hank’s feet when he took his shoes off after a basketball game. I would have spit it out, but I could already see the handsome bartender to my left enjoying my discomfort. I shoved the entire deviled egg into my mouth and chewed rapidly. Anything was preferable to the stinky cheese right now.
I felt my face turn red. The delicacy revealed itself to me in notes. The first note was a sour one from the egg yolk mixture when lemon juice took center stage. Who makes deviled eggs with lemon juice? Heavy garlic came next with motor oil rapidly shoving it out of the way. The fish eggs had been marinated in what could only be described as motor oil.
My gag reflex took over, and I nearly vomited right then. I chewed faster in an attempt to swallow the appalling mess quickly. The popping fish eggs completely squicked me out, and the final note emerged - salt. The note was worthy of the Great Salt Lake.
My eyes opened wide, and my tongue hung out of my mouth. I caught the bartender laughing. He set a glass on the bar and poured the double shot of gin into it. Still gagging, I stumbled over and snatched the glass as he pushed it toward me.
I threw the shot back and swished the burning liquid around in my mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. The gin hit the putrid cheese and caviar, and my stomach instantly rolled and pounded as if it contained waves worthy to be surfed. I felt no shame when a loud choking noise and a surreptitious burp followed the gin.
“Would you like another?” the bartender asked. He waved the bottle of gin in front of my face. It was obvious he found my situation entertaining.
I could only shake my head and hope I didn’t die before I could get out of the building. I grabbed my purse from the table and lurched for a side exit. The bride and groom were making their grand entrance through the main doors. They looked blissfully happy, and I knew my outburst in church hadn’t been enough of a disruption to spoil their day.
Stepping outside, I spotted benches on either side of the door. I sat down on one and willed my stomach to stop rolling. I didn’t want to throw up in a public place.
Mama always told me to put my head down when I felt faint or sick. I never knew if she was yanking my chain or not, but I leaned forward now.
“Feeling remorseful?” Hank asked.
He sat down himself beside me.
I sat up and pointed to the miserable look on my face. “No. Feeling sick.”
He rested his arm behind me on the back of the bench, grabbed my shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. I knew it was a squeeze of forgiveness.
“The ceremony was nice,” he said. “Too bad you didn’t stick around.”
I smiled. “Wasn’t that terrible? You could have dropped dead beside me, and it would have only made me laugh harder.”
“Swell. Thanks. I love you, too.”
“It’s not like that. Haven’t you ever laughed so hard that everything becomes funny, and you simply can’t stop? It’s like those newscasters who make a gaffe, and then they’re out of control with laughter for the next story about a plane crash that kills everyone on board.”
He thought for a moment before saying, “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, the bride started it,” I said. “When I saw those red pasties coming down the aisle, they set me off. Didn’t you think they looked hilarious? I can’t tell you what the bride looks like, because all I can still see in my mind are those pasties.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Ok, it was humorous, but there was a good reason for the roses. And don’t you know it’s rude to make fun of a bride on her wedding day?”
“I’m not making fun of her. I’m sure she’s a lovely person. I’m making fun of her pasties.”
“It was a dry cleaner malfunction.”
“The dry cleaners put red rose pasties on her dress?”
He frowned. I could tell he was starting to get irritated again.
“Stop saying that. They aren’t pasties. The dress belongs to her cousin. She took it to the dry cleaners, and a new girl messed up the settings. When she pressed the dress, some of the material scorched. There wasn’t time to find another dress, so the bridesmaids sewed roses onto the brown spots.”
I wanted to laugh, but a sharp pain in my stomach put my head back down on my knees. If I didn’t throw up soon and this disgusting food made its way into my intestines, it was going to be a much bigger problem.
I looked up at Hank through watery eyes and said, “Don’t eat the stinky cheese or the caviar.”
“No worries there,” he said with a shake of his head. “That caviar’s been at the bar for longer than anyone remembers. Leroy Parker donated it for the special day. He swears it’s still good.”
“It’s not good for me. Hank, I have to go home. I don’t think I’m going to be able to hold this in.”
“I can’t leave yet. I promised several dances to one of the bridesmaids.” He stood from the bench. “Sit tight. I’ll call a cab for you.”
Sitting tight wasn’t going to be a problem. I was afraid to move. However, now that the sun had set, I was starting to feel cold.
October is an unpredictable month in Ohio. Temperatures can easily be near eighty, or they might be a normal seventy degrees. By Halloween, you could be collecting your treats in a thunderstorm or trudging through snow. This year, the kids would likely be wearing lightweight clothing if the weather remained balmy.
My favorite Halloween was fifteen years ago when Hank was fourteen. He milked cows before and after school and on the weekends for Patrick O’Leary, a local farmer who lived on the outskirts of town. Hank took a huge ribbing about the milking, and the kids at school constantly razzed him not to let a cow kick over his lantern and burn down Buxley.
On this particular Halloween, he “borrowed” Farmer O’Leary’s old ’53 Ford pickup truck and drove it home after he finished milking the cows. Mama was at work at the vacuum cleaner plant and had left me in charge of handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. I was steaming mad. The cutest guy in school had asked me to a Halloween party, and I was embarrassed when I had to tell him I couldn’t go. I was seventeen and couldn’t believe Mama would make me stay home to keep an eye on Hank and hand out candy. Pepper was away at college, but I didn’t remember Mama ever making her stay home and hand out candy when she was in high school.
When Hank showed up with the truck, it didn’t take him long to convince me to drive while he stood in the bed and launched dozens of eggs at houses all over tow
n. With every egg that hit a classmate’s house, he yelled, “Score!”
We both wore masks. Hank was Cartman, and I was Kenny. We weren’t recognized, and we didn’t see a police officer all evening. When Hank was out of eggs, we took the truck back to the farm and then ran like the dickens through the fields and through town until we were home. Hank tossed the masks into the trash and went to bed. I gave the last few trick-or-treaters all the candy in Mama’s fancy punch bowl and went to bed myself.
We didn’t confess to our civil disobedience, and we held our breath for a few days, but no one came around to arrest us, and we eventually forgot about the prank. On Christmas morning, Mama rang the Christmas bell before dawn, and we rushed downstairs to open presents. We were aghast to see there weren’t any – not even for Pepper. Staring at us from under the tree were the Cartman and Kenny masks.
Mama was one tough bird. All three of us were long past the age of believing in Santa Claus, but Mama held fast to her story that our behavior kept Santa from coming that year. We gave Mama her gifts, and we exchanged gifts to each other, but it was a solemn Christmas. It was after dinner and late into the evening when we heard the Christmas bell ring again, calling us from our rooms. Mama had finally loaded our gifts under the tree. There was a sign leaning against them with one word printed on it: Score.
“The cab hasn’t come yet?”
I looked up from my memory and said with as much oomph as I could muster, “Score.”
Hank laughed. “It’s about that time again, isn’t it?” He shook his head as he remembered our reign of terror. “That was one for the ages, wasn’t it?”
“We were lucky Mama didn’t march us down to the police station and volunteer us for twenty years of hard labor. You never did tell me how you managed to get so many eggs."
“I put a bushel basket in the thicket behind the barn. Every day for two months, I put two eggs from the chicken coop into that basket. By the time Halloween rolled around, it was full of mostly rotten eggs.” He laughed. “Kids could never get away with a stunt like that today. They’d end up in juvenile detention centers.”
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