The Perfect Plan

by Carina Taylor

  She turned around to find Marcie putting on a pair of reading glasses to stare at her.

  Finally, Marcie spoke. "You know, I hate rattling around an empty house by myself. I was glad he called. You might as well stay. I mean, Evan and my daughter-in-law think I'm losing my mind. If it eases their consciences to have someone keep an eye on me, then, by all means, let them ease their minds by paying you to live here. I don't mind. If you don't stay, you'll have to look for an apartment to lease, and then they'll probably send some other caregiver I can't stand. I like having people around — people I like, anyways. You might as well have yourself a paid vacation."

  Libby had never had a paid vacation before, but it sounded nice. And she couldn't argue that it would be nice to get paid for doing nothing.

  Libby imagined the summer ahead in vivid detail: sipping lemonade, talking with Marcie, doing nothing in particular. It sounded wonderful.

  "Isn't that a little like stealing if I tell them I'm doing a job when I'm not?"

  Marcie laughed. "All they want you to do is keep me alive, right?"

  "I'm sure they want you to be happy too, but yes."

  "Sounds like you'll be doing your job," she reminded. "Besides, if you don't stay, they'll keep sending some retired nurse who's as old as me but not nearly as fun."

  Libby tried to think of a reason not to stay, but it wasn't like she had anywhere better to be. "Okay, I'll stay, since you put it that way."

  "Wonderful! I'll show you the house before you unload your stuff. You can pick whichever room you want. Make yourself right at home. If you can't find what you're looking for, just ask. I'm sure I have it somewhere. I've lived here for fifty years, and stuff accumulates."

  Libby glanced around the kitchen; she didn't doubt that statement for an instant. There were piles. Everywhere. Papers, small unidentifiable objects, office supplies, and dishes littered the kitchen counters. A roll of duct tape sat on top of a porcelain swan.

  It looked like a tornado tossed an office and a kitchen together.

  Marcie followed Libby's gaze then said, "I'm not much of a cook. Are you?"

  Libby shook her head. "I can cook ground beef for taco salad, but that's about it."

  "Darn, it would have been nice if one of us knew how. Oh well. Cooking takes up too much time for me. We've got a little market in town and a couple restaurants; that's usually what I get by on."

  "Sounds fine to me," Libby agreed. She had no desire to cook elaborate meals. She preferred fresh food anyway. She would much rather eat some fresh fruit and veggies than cook every day of her life. It sounded so repetitive and pointless.

  "I haven't had a roommate in years, which is funny considering I hate living alone. I stay busy, so I'm not home much, but it'll be nice having you in the house. You know what I mean?"

  Libby nodded. "Yeah, I do. I had a roommate back in California, and I'm hoping I'll have another one once I get settled in Portland. I don't like being in an apartment by myself. Maybe I'll advertise on Craigslist or something. I hope you don't mind if I do some apartment searching while I'm here."

  "Why, of course not! I'll help you. I have some friends who live in Portland; they might know of a good deal."

  "Really? Thank you. I'm not familiar with the area, so I don't even know where to start."

  "We'll go up and spend some time there. There's lots to see and do in Portland. The only thing is, I have a deadline to write for, so I'll have to spend some time working this summer."

  "Write? What do you mean?"

  "Evan didn't tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  "Come here." Marcie stood and popped her back before she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Libby followed close behind. Marcie motioned to a shelf hanging on the wall above a purple couch. The bookshelf was lined with books plastered with Marcie's name.

  "These are yours?" Libby asked.

  "I sure hope so. I spent enough time writing and researching that those had better be mine," Marcie laughed.

  "That's incredible. There must be twenty books here!"

  "Twenty-nine. I'm about to write my thirtieth."

  "That's a lot of words."

  Marcie nodded.

  "What do you write about?"

  "I write fiction. The majority of them are literary fiction, but some are action and adventure. Right now, I'm working on my first mystery. I've always wanted to write one. I thought it was time."

  Libby stepped closer and started reading the titles on the shelf. She paused when she got to a book cover that looked familiar. She pulled it off the shelf and flipped through it.

  "Hey, my roommate made me read this book. She's a huge fan of yours! Wait, aren't you the author that writes about stuff you do?"

  Marcie smiled. "In a way. Every book of mine is based on an element of experience that I've had."

  Libby had read her book about a skydiver. Libby honestly couldn't remember that much about the book — she wasn't much of a reader. She'd only read it to appease Vivian.

  "So you've been a skydiving instructor for real?"

  Marcie nodded, causing wisps of her white hair to fall from her short ponytail.

  "When was that?"

  "About five years ago."

  Libby snapped the book shut and put it back on the shelf. She pulled another one off and read the back flap. "You've been on a safari?"

  "Of course, who hasn't by my age?"

  "Who hasn't by your age," Libby muttered under her breath as she began pulling books off the shelf and reading the blurb on the back. Her conclusion: her new landlady was a well-traveled and widely talented adventurer.

  "The circus? Restaurateur? Storm chasing? You've actually done this stuff?"

  Marcie shrugged. "I liked variety in my younger years."

  As if that explained everything, Libby thought. "You know, I'm not much of a reader, but I actually read your entire book. That says a lot."

  "Help yourself to however many you want this summer. If the reading bug hits you, I've got a room lined with books upstairs. Come on, and I'll show you." Marcie waved her hand around at the room. "This is the living room, by the way. There's a TV in that cabinet. I've got cable, Netflix, or pretty much whatever you want. I'm back to watching Fixer Upper reruns right now."

  "Shiplap. Good show. I'm a little addicted to it myself."

  "Oh good, we won't have to argue over what to watch. Come on, I'll show you the rest of the house."

  One hour later, the house tour was complete. The tour could have been finished in five minutes, but Marcie had been sure to tell Libby the history of each room.

  The old home had five bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a creaking, crowded attic space. The house had two bathrooms: one upstairs and one downstairs. According to Marcie, it was no easy feat to add a bathroom to the upstairs. It hadn't been very affordable either, but as Marcie had repeatedly explained to Libby during the extensive house tour, she loved having company and wanted two bathrooms. The contractor had told her it would be cheaper to buy a new house than to add a second bathroom. Marcie opted for adding the second bathroom.

  Libby couldn't fault her for wanting to keep the house. The work on the house was detailed. This was not a manufactured home. From the carefully crafted doors to the molding and the original built-in shelves, it had a lot of character. The kitchen was small, but that wasn't much of a problem for someone who didn't like to cook.

  One of the bedrooms upstairs was used as Marcie's office, and the other three were guest bedrooms. The fifth bedroom — Marcie's — was downstairs just off the living room.

  As they stopped at the top of the stair landing, Marcie told her, "I need to go make a few phone calls and talk to my agent and let her know I'm making progress with my new book. Why don't you pick your favorite room and get settled in?"

  "Okay, thanks. I'll grab my stuff from the car."

  "If you're hungry, raid the fridge and pantry. I'll be down as soon as I'm finished with a few phone c
alls."

  Libby started to head downstairs, feeling an unexpected thrill that she was staying. She paused at the top step. "Thanks for letting me stay. This is the first real house I'll have stayed in."

  She hurried down the stairs, wondering why she was suddenly so excited to stay in Colter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARCIE WAITED UNTIL she heard the front door close before she went into her office upstairs. She wanted to make sure Libby wouldn't overhear this conversation. Old houses had notoriously thin walls. Picking up her cell phone, she dialed Evan's number. She wanted to talk to her grandson before she called that pesky, overachieving agent of hers.

  She missed her grandson. She even missed her daughter-in-law. In her attempts to get them to come visit, they had assumed she needed a full-time caregiver. Instead, what she needed was someone to love. Marcie needed someone to take care of and watch out for. It was a compulsion both her and Evan shared. Now that she had Libby here, she couldn't even be mad at Evan for hiring a "caregiver." Libby seemed like she could use some people to belong to as much as Marcie.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, Evan, this is your grandma. You might not remember me."

  "Very funny, Grandma. Is everything all right? Did Libby make it there safe? How did she seem?"

  Marcie smiled to herself. And that answered that question. Her grandson had his eye on the girl. Though, from the little she had gathered, Libby didn't know it yet.

  "Why did you send that poor girl all the way out here? I'm not dead yet."

  "That's what Mom is trying to prevent, Grandma. Besides, it was either Libby or some stranger. Remember what happened last time? I kind of thought you would like Libby."

  "I do. She seems like a nice girl. Quiet," Marcie said, testing the waters.

  "Aha! So she's decided to lure you in with the niceness. It won't last. She'll warm up. The sarcasm will be out before lunch tomorrow."

  "Thank goodness. Nice people exhaust me. Now, don't worry about us; I think we'll get along fine."

  "Thanks for doing this, Grandma."

  "You're welcome. I realized this is more about you and that girl than it is about me and my old age. You know, I'm not quite senile yet, despite what your mother says."

  "I know, Grandma."

  "Tell me about this girl."

  It wasn't a request.

  If there was one thing Marcie knew how to do, it was demand information from her grandson. And she shamelessly exploited his respect for his elders.

  "I don't know what to tell you, Grandma. We've lived next to each other for three years now. I didn't like the idea of her spending the summer alone. Besides, she would probably be calling me to do her honey-do list."

  "She called you whenever she had a problem?"

  "Well, no. Sometimes, I guess." Evan chuckled. "She usually tried to fix it herself, then she would come pretend to borrow tools, and then we would fix it together."

  "Which one of you is more mechanical?"

  "What does that have to do with anything, Grandma?"

  "Sheer curiosity, sweetheart."

  Evan snorted. "She's the better plumber; I can fix the car. If it's anything electrical, then we're both out of luck."

  Marcie chuckled.

  They chatted for a few more minutes. Evan told her all about the new job he was starting up and what his new apartment looked like. He told her more stories about Libby from their years of living next to each other while Marcie's mind pondered the Evan/Libby dilemma. Evan cared for the girl, whether he admitted it to himself or not.

  The two of them had reserved personalities, meaning neither of them wanted to be the first to say anything. If the two of them ever had a chance to be anything more than friends, it would take a small miracle and a little craftiness. Marcie didn't have a miracle hiding up her sleeve, but she did have plenty of the latter.

  LIBBY STOOD AT THE top of the narrow staircase holding a duffle bag, two backpacks, and a purse. All of her worldly possessions.

  When Marcie had given her the tour, she had opened and closed so many doors that now Libby couldn't remember which room was which. She dragged her large duffel bag behind her as she opened the first door she came to.

  It was the linen closet. Libby was small but not that small. She wanted a bed to sleep on, not an ironing board. She moved to the next door. It opened inwards, and Libby came eye to eye with Bambi's father. The stuffed buck stood tall on its cloven hooves. It stared at her with black eyes. The deer was centered in the room as though it were guarding the twin bed sitting against the wall. It was like a taxidermist's purgatory.

  Libby closed the door. She didn't want to disturb the wildlife, so she went to the next room and opened the door. The queen-sized bed with a navy blue comforter looked more her style. On the walls, there were black-and-white photos featuring numerous European landmarks: the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, Buckingham Palace, and some castle that she was sure was famous for something or other–she hadn't paid much attention during history class.

  The room had the added perk of being next door to the bathroom. Libby plopped her bags down on the bed and pulled out her phone to text her aunt.

  Libby: I made it to Colter. Love you and miss you.

  Leanne: You know if you decide you don't like it there, you can come stay with me until your job starts in the fall.

  Libby: Thanks! I think I'll be fine. Marcie seems nice.

  Leanne: Ok. I booked us an all-inclusive package to Belize at the beginning of September.

  Libby: Perfect. I can't wait!

  Libby stepped into the hall, trying to decide what she should do next. She could hear Marcie downstairs, talking to someone on the phone.

  "...standalone mystery..."

  "...different than anything I've written..."

  "...difficult to write..."

  "...experience..."

  "...murder..."

  Libby laughed at the little clips of the conversation she overheard. By nature, she despised eavesdroppers. In her opinion, the world would be a better place if everyone minded their own business. But Marcie had a booming voice that matched her personality. Or perhaps she was one of those people who believed you had to yell into phones to be heard. A definite possibility.

  Libby entered the kitchen just as Marcie hung up the phone.

  "Are you all settled in?"

  "Yes, thanks. I picked the blue room."

  "That's fine, dear. I need to answer a few emails. I'm sorry to rush out on you when you've only just gotten here. Please, help yourself to anything around here. There's food in the fridge, or if you decide to explore around town, tell them Marcie sent you, and they'll give you a discount." She gave Libby a smile as she headed out of the kitchen. She called from down the hall, "There's a diner in town that makes some good deli sandwiches, and you can catch up on all the local news while you're there."

  "Thank you!" Libby opened the fridge in question. Mustard, ketchup, and sauces of all varieties covered the shelves on the door. The top shelf held three yogurt cups. Something that looked suspiciously like leftover tacos sat on the middle shelf. The bottom shelf of the fridge was covered in something brown and viscous.

  She would give that diner a try after all.

  She looked around for her car keys and noticed them sitting on top of a neat stack of papers on the table. She didn't remember setting her keys on top of anything, but she had probably been distracted by meeting Marcie. She snatched up the keys, but the document caught her attention. The top page declared in big bold letters, When Murder Comes Your Way. Several handwritten notes covered the front page surrounding the title.

  Act 1, Act 2, Act 3 were labeled but blank.

  One note was highlighted in bright pink: Element of Experience: Murder.

  The element of experience? What did that mean? Not wanting to pry but not able to stop herself now that curiosity had gotten the better of her, Libby lifted the top page so she could get a look at the second page. More handwritten notes were intersp
ersed between typed text.

  A list of ways someone could be murdered.

  A list of likely motives.

  A list of character names. She didn't know what a book in progress was supposed to look like, but she had to assume this was it. Marcie was an author after all. This must be her current project.

  She shouldn't read it.

  It wasn't her business. It was probably breaking some secret author law by looking at the draft. But she began flipping through the pages anyway. It wasn't quite a rough draft. More like a rough skeleton. An outline of the book to come. The best Libby could figure, it was a murder mystery centered around a suburb in a small town. Cozy mystery style, if Libby didn't miss her guess.

  "How to Get Away with Murder" was a subtitle.

  The description and setting sounded familiar — similar to Marcie's neighborhood.

  Marcie's words flashed through Libby's mind. "Every book of mine is based on an element of experience that I've had."

  That didn't mean what Libby thought it meant, right?

  Just because Marcie was getting older didn't mean she was getting crazy. She was a woman who trimmed her own hedges and made terrible coffee. She was welcoming and kind. She had offered her a place to stay while she apartment hunted.

  Libby laughed off her fears. Of course Marcie wouldn't murder anyone. How absurd. Her element of experience must be the setting.

  Libby flipped through the pages until she looked at the last page of the choppy manuscript.

  To Do:

  Choose murder weapon

  Pick victim

  Find time

  Create alibi

  Do The Deed

  That list sounded rather specific. It was a little difficult to ignore the fact that an author that was famous for writing about things she had personally experienced was writing a murder mystery.