A Weapon of Choice
Sarah Woods Mystery #9
Copyright © 2014
All rights reserved.
Jennifer L. Jennings
Chapter 1
Sunday, June 22
Sunday mornings are just for me. I sleep in until nine, then drink coffee in my pajamas. Depending on the weather, I might go for a run. On this particular morning I’d decided to forgo the exercise, brew another pot of coffee and lounge on my sofa to watch the Turner Classic Movie Channel.
Alfred Hitchcock movies are among my favorites: Rear Window, North by Northwest, Psycho, Shadow of a Doubt, The Birds, and of course, Dial M for Murder, just to name a few.
I have seen all of these movies many times over the course of my forty-four years. I can still remember the first time I witnessed the infamous shower scene in Psycho.
I was five years old and was supposed to be fast asleep in bed, but I’d gotten up to use the bathroom. Mom and dad were in the TV room, watching their “adult” movie. Naturally, I was curious to see why an “adult” movie was so different from a “kids’ ” movie and I found out that night.
Mom and Dad never saw me crouching behind the sofa, watching the mesmerizing visions on the TV. I held my hands over my mouth, trying not to scream when the murderous knife scene played out. And yet, as horrified as I was, I could not turn my eyes away.
What is it about horror films that titillate us? Is it the adrenaline rush? Is it to experience death without actually experiencing the physical act of dying?
When death engulfs us in the form of losing a family member, friend, or pet, it is the most gut-wrenching experience. But what happens when it isn’t us involved? When the person who dies is someone you’ve never met.
It isn’t the death that fascinates me. It’s the psychology behind it. The reasons. What drives a person to murder another human being?
There are millions of reasons why people kill. It’s been happening since the beginning of time. Some experts will say its nature, some say its nurture, and some believe it’s both. While I may not be an expert in such theories, I agree there are four main motivations that drive a person to commit murder: fear, anger, desperation and greed.
As a private investigator in a small city with a population of 30,000, murders rarely occur. Most of my jobs involve cheating spouses, fraudulent activity and missing persons. Despite my limited experience however, I am occasionally called upon to assist in a murder investigation.
When I received the phone call that Sunday morning at 10:30, the girl’s voice on the other end surprised me. She sounded like a teenager.
“Is this Sarah Woods?” she asked, tentatively.
“Yes,” I replied. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Candice Barr Frazier. Your son Brian gave me your number.”
“Really?” My son went to college in Boston, and I hadn’t talked to him in a few weeks. He’d never called to tell me that he’d given out my name and number. “Are you a friend of his?” I asked.
“Sort of. We have a mutual acquaintance. Anyway, Brian mentioned that his mom was a private detective. He was kind of bragging about it, actually.”
“Well, it’s nice to know he remembers he has a mother.”
She cleared her throat nervously. “Um, I know this is Sunday, but I was hoping you might have some time to meet me.”
I didn’t need to check my calendar. I already knew I had nothing going on. “Sure. What’s the nature of your business?”
“I’d rather discuss this in person, if you don’t mind. Where is your office?”
“I don’t have an office. I usually meet with clients at the Hometown Diner in Bridgeport. The booths are very private. And the food is not half bad, either. Or I can meet you anywhere you feel comfortable.”
“The Hometown Diner is fine. What time?”
“How about two o’clock. The place will be dead at that hour.”
A long pause. “Thank you Ms. Woods. I appreciate you being available at such short notice. How will I know it’s you when I get there?”
“I have long, straight, brown hair,” I said. “And, I’ll be wearing a white button-down shirt. And please, call me Sarah.”
Chapter 2
The Hometown Diner was practically empty at two in the afternoon, just like I knew it would be. I sat at my usual table, facing the door, and sipped on coffee while I waited for Candice to arrive.
At 2:05, a young woman entered the diner. She had intelligent, dark eyes and a serious expression. Her short, pixie style haircut accentuated her oval face and petite features. She wore a flowery, light cotton tunic over black leggings. She couldn’t have been much older then twenty-one.
She scanned the restaurant and her gaze fell on me when I raised my hand to get her attention.
She smiled wearily, walked over, and joined me at the booth. “Sarah?”
I stood up and held out my hand. “Candice, nice to meet you.”
After shaking hands, she slid into the opposite side of the booth and placed her leather satchel beside her. “This is a cute place,” she said.
“Would you like coffee or something to eat?”
“Just coffee would be great.”
I signaled to the waitress. She strolled over to our table and poured another mug for Candice. We declined the offer for food and the waitress left us alone.
“So,” I began, casually. “What can I do for you?”
She reached into the satchel and placed a large manila envelope on the table. “You probably heard about my mother’s death on the news or in the paper a few months ago. Her name was Melanie Barr Frazier. This is everything I have; police reports, autopsy reports, newspaper articles, and other notes I’ve included.”
“Her name does ring a bell,” I said. “But, I’m sorry that I don’t recollect the details.”
“My mother was poisoned.”
The story was starting to come back to me. “Didn’t they already find the person who did it?”
“Yes. Her name is Jasmine Thompson. She’s currently serving five years for involuntary manslaughter at the Framingham Correctional Facility.”
I placed my cell phone on the table. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to record our conversation.”
Candice nodded as she grasped her coffee mug and traced the rim with her finger. With a doleful expression, she inhaled and exhaled in conscious effort. When her eyes met mine, they were filled with confusion and heartbreak. “In case you didn’t know, my mom was a sex therapist and author of several bestselling books. When the first book got published, no one had any idea it would become a bestseller. At first it seemed like a blessing but I guess with all the pressures and demands that followed, my mom resorted to taking prescription drugs to help her unwind. The side effects of those medicines were unbearable, so she started smoking marijuana.” Candice paused to look around the restaurant. The tables near us were empty, but she still seemed paranoid. Finally she took a breath and continued. “Marijuana is almost legal at this point so when I found out about it, I figured, why not? If it helps my mom deal, then it’s better than drinking. She bought her joints from a woman who grew medical marijuana at her home because her husband has cancer. Anyway, it happened Friday, April third. I was supposed to meet my mom for dinner around 7:30. She called from her office to say she was running late because she was waiting for Jasmine to deliver the weed. But an hour went by and mom never showed up at the restaurant. I called her repeatedly with no answer. Finally, around eight-thirty, I drove to her office. I found her on the floor. The joint was on her desk, or what was left of it. I tried CPR but it was too late.”
While I waited for Candice to take a few breaths, I noticed her petite hands, h
ow the fingernails had been chewed off. The poor girl was a nervous wreck.
She continued, “To make a long story short, the toxicology tests showed traces of cicutoxin in her lungs. It comes from a local poisonous plant called Water Hemlock. The poison was also found in the joint on my mother’s desk. The police arrested Jasmine a few days later.”
“What motive did Jasmine have to poison your mom?”
“Good question. The prosecutors never did find a motive. But they didn’t really need one with all the evidence they had. It never went to trial. Jasmine pled guilty to involuntary manslaughter. She had no criminal history, so she got a reduced sentence.”
I glanced at a newspaper clipping that showed a photo of Jasmine. She was dark-skinned with curly black hair, probably a mix of Latin and African American descent.
“Okay,” I said, still confused. “So, if she’s already serving time why do you need my help?”
Candice pursed her lips and stared at the table. Finally, she met my gaze and said, “Last week I got a letter from Jasmine. After I read it, I went to the prison and talked to her.”
“Do you have the letter here with you?”
She slid the piece of paper across the table and it read:
Dear Candice,
I’m writing to tell you how sorry I am about your mother. She was always very kind and helpful to me, and I respected her work very much. I had no reason to hurt her.
I have no idea how the poison got into the joint I gave your mom. That is the truth. I will spend the next five years of my life in prison, and I’ll learn to accept that, but I will never accept the fact that I’m being accused for the death of another human being.
I pled guilty for a lesser sentence because my lawyer said a trial was too risky. I took his advice, but now I regret it. I know in my heart that someone else is involved in your mother’s death. There is no other explanation for it.
I’m writing this letter, not because I want your pity or forgiveness, but because you deserve to find out the real reasons behind your mother’s death.
I can’t imagine how much you’re hurting right now. My heart goes out to you.
Sincerely,
Jasmine Thompson
I placed the letter back on the table and looked at Candice. “You must believe her, or else you wouldn’t have called me.”
She nodded. “Part of me believes her. I don’t know. I just can’t imagine who would want to kill my mom. She didn’t have any enemies.”
“How did your mom meet Jasmine in the first place?”
“They met during a photo shoot.”
“A photo shoot for what?”
Candice paused and cleared her throat. “Well, my mom’s first book is called, Sex Positions for Mind-Blowing Orgasms. Her books are more like instruction manuals for married couples, but the photos are quite graphic. Jasmine and her husband were the models for the sex scenes.”
“So, your mom and Jasmine became friends?”
“I don’t think they were good friends, but my mom liked her. Jasmine was a natural in front of the camera, and when mom’s second book came out, she hired Jasmine and her husband to be in that one, too.”
I scratched my head, trying to figure out why someone would pose in such a publication. “Just curious. Do Jasmine and her husband have a background in pornography?”
Candice seemed a little offended. “My mother’s books are not pornography. They are instruction manuals for couples. She was a highly respected therapist.”
“Right. Forgive me. So, getting back to Jasmine …”
“Yeah, well, I guess it was about six months after the second book came out that Jasmine’s husband was diagnosed with cancer. Jasmine got a license to grow medical marijuana and word got around. Jasmine started selling it to friends for extra cash to help pay for her husband’s chemo treatments. My mom contacted her and started buying the stuff.”
“How often did your mom smoke marijuana?”
“Not often. One or two joints would last her a week.”
“Who else besides you and Jasmine knew about her habit?”
“Mom’s husband Gregory. He’s my step dad. My real dad died when I was a baby.”
“Tell me about your stepdad.”
“He and mom got married when I was seven. He wasn’t much of a dad, even though he adopted me. After mom made it big with her book, Gregory decided to quit his job as an accountant. He enjoyed spending her money, though. He collected cars, went golfing and traveled to the Caribbean as much as he could. In the past few years, they’d started fighting a lot about money. She was conservative and didn’t approve of his spending habits.”
“Was he ever a suspect in your mother’s death?”
“The police questioned him, but he was never a suspect. He was out of the country when she died.” She paused for a few seconds, her fingers nervously tapping on the table. “My mom had purchased a decent life insurance policy a few years ago. Gregory and I both got half a million dollars.”
“Why was your step dad out of the country? Where was he?”
“In Saint Martin. They have a house there, but Gregory was the only one who ever went there.”
“Who else knew about your mom’s marijuana habit?” I asked.
“My aunt Shelly. She’s my mom’s older sister.”
“Where does she live?”
“Haverhill. As soon as mom died, I didn’t want to live with Gregory anymore, so Aunt Shelly invited me to stay with her until I found my own place.”
“Was your mom close to her sister?”
Candice shrugged. “Not really. Aunt Shelly is a born-again Christian and she frowns on illegal drug use, not to mention the sex books. They didn’t see eye to eye on many things.”
“Does your aunt know you’re talking to a private investigator?”
“Yes, she knows. I think she understands that I need more answers. I need closure. And now I can afford to pay someone to look into things.”
“So you really think Jasmine was set up?”
“I don’t know. But I will say one thing. My step-dad already has a new girlfriend. I don’t know who she is, but I saw a pair of women’s shoes at his house a few weeks ago when I stopped by to get some of my things. It’s only been two and a half months and he’s already replaced my mother? I have a feeling he’s been seeing her before my mom died.”
I bit my lip, choosing my next words carefully. “You think your step-dad had something to do with your mom’s death?”
Candice stared at her hands. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s not a bad guy. But I think he’s obsessed with money.”
“Here’s what I’ll do,” I said. “I’ll take this file home with me today and read the entire thing. I’d like to consult with my partner before I decide to take the assignment. I want to make sure I can help you.”
“You have a partner?” she asked.
“Carter is an ex cop from Boston. He taught me everything I know. He’s very trustworthy.”
“So,” she said, hesitantly. “When will you have a decision? I don’t want to rush you, but I need to find someone soon.”
“I’ll have an answer by this evening, okay?”
“That’s fine.” She placed a ten-dollar bill on the table and said, “Let me buy the coffee.”
“Thanks Candice. I appreciate that.”
Chapter 3
After my meeting with Candice, I drove back to my apartment — a second floor unit in a lovely Victorian house where I moved after my divorce.
I live alone except for when my boyfriend Max is in town. As a surveillance expert, he often travels for work. My son Brian goes to college only forty miles away in Boston, and I see him even less than Max.
There are many benefits to living alone, but certain days I crave companionship. There is comfort in knowing that someone is waiting for you, and will be worried if you don’t come home.
Even when I was married to Daniel, I felt lonely most of the time. We had separate lives, with t
he only glue being our son Brian. Our split was mutual and neither one of us wasted much time in finding a replacement.
Despite the fleeting moments of loneliness, I enjoy my single existence, always anticipating Max’s return from a trip. He spoils me with attention and makes fabulous meals. He’s easy on the eyes, too, which doesn’t hurt my feelings.
But last week, he’d dropped a bomb on me. He’d decided to accept a full time job in San Francisco. He asked me to move with him and now I had to make a decision. I still had no idea what to do. Part of me keeps hoping he’ll change his mind, or the deal will fall through. Selfish, I know.
Truth is, I don’t want to move. My life in New Hampshire is comfortable and, as much as I care for Max, I feel a little resentful that he accepted the job in California before discussing it with me, first.
Not that I blame him for wanting to better his career, but I have a career, too.
And then, of course, there’s Carter. How can I leave him? For the past year and a half, he’s been my mentor and partner, a friend I can trust with my life. Am I just supposed to ditch him like a piece of rotten meat?
Jackie, my neighbor upstairs, is the only person I’ve told about the potential move. We’d become good friends (drinking buddies) in the past year. I’ve taken care of her dog and listened to her complain about her failed relationships. She’s a gregarious, plump, over-sexed woman of forty, and my best female friend I’ve had in a while.
Jackie expressed great concern about my moving away. She isn’t convinced that Max is the guy for me, mainly because Max is seven years younger and still unsure about what he wants in life. It seems pretty clear to me, however, that his career is the most important thing to him at the moment.
But refusing to move to California could only lead to one thing; the end of my relationship with Max. Long distance love affairs never work out in the long run.
I decided to put it out of my mind for the time being and focus on the job at hand.
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