Maid of Murder aihm-1

by Amanda Flower

  Bobby crossed his arms across his chest. “Fine. I’ll make up my own ending.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” I took my eyes off the road to give him my best dirty scowl, a look I perfected at the library’s reference desk.

  “What?” He asked innocent as a baby lamb. I knew better.

  “You’re wondering if you can use that story in one of your ridiculous plots.”

  Bobby had a penchant of writing short fiction for romance magazines. He’d sold several to publications like Minx and Velvet Rose. I had proofread far too many of them to want my brother to be the inspiration for the next confounded hero.

  “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Okay, I was, but my readers would love it. It’s got all the elements: scorned heart, love lost—”

  “We’re talking about Mark here. Please. I might have to pull over and throw up. It’s wrong to use his heartbreak that way, especially for a measly two hundred bucks.”

  “Hey, Minx paid me six hundred last time for Secret Kiss, a three-part series,” he said proudly.

  I shook my head and turned the car onto Kilbourne Street. I pointed at a two-story colonial. “That’s where I grew up.” Someone had painted it a dark khaki. I grimaced.

  “Very suburban,” he remarked.

  Two houses down, I parked in the driveway of a large Victorian, complete with wraparound porch and suspended swing, outshining all the other abodes on the block. When I lived on Kilbourne Street, the Blocken house had been painted a simple white with navy trim; now it was a supposedly Victorian pink with darker pink trim. I’m sure the decorator called the colors “damask” and “mauve.”

  I wasn’t halfway out of my car when I heard a high-pitched yelp, resembling a frightened puppy at the groomer’s.

  “Incoming,” Bobby said as he slipped expertly out of the passenger side door.

  “India!” Olivia ran toward me with her arms outstretched and welcoming as if I was a returning war hero. Thankfully, I cleared the car door before she hit. She grabbed me in a crushing hug. Because she’s so thin, this would have surprised me if I had not known about her lifelong obsession with fitness. There was a kickboxing-hardened body hidden under her elegant sundress. After an excruciatingly long minute, she released me. All the while, Bobby smirked at me over her head. He was enjoying himself a little too much, in my opinion.

  Olivia looked much the same as she had in high school—same build, same endearing smile and flawless complexion. However, her hair was red, and so expertly done that I wouldn’t have suspected anything if I hadn’t known her for twenty-some years as a brunette.

  “I’m so glad to see you.” She repeated the sentence at least three times until she finally noticed Bobby standing beside my car with that infuriating grin on his face. “And who’s this?” she asked with the tone of an eighth-grade girl spotting a tenth-grade hottie.

  Bobby looked especially fetching standing in the afternoon sun, dressed in pressed chino shorts and blue knit shirt I knew he’d picked to match his eyes. One of the arguments I had used to persuade him to accompany me was that he might meet a new lady friend. Bobby was always on the prowl for a new heart to break. Fortunately, I knew this from observation, not experience. When I started working at Martin’s library, Bobby’s looks had intimidated me, but sometime during the last three years, he’d grown familiar. I was only reminded how handsome he was when women reacted to him like Olivia just had. Or when female undergraduates strutted up to the reference desk to ask me when the “hot book guy” would return. I’ve never told Bobby about the “hot book guy” thing; his ego is far too large already.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Olivia,” I said, as if I should have introduced him while she was crushing my bones into powder. “This is Robert McNally. He works with me at Martin.”

  “Really?” Olivia on her strappy high-heeled sandals sashayed over to Bobby and took his outstretched hand. “Hello, Robert. I don’t remember librarians being as hot as you when I was in college.”

  I stopped myself just short of asking her if she’s ever stepped inside her college library.

  “Call me Bobby,” he replied, his eyes looking her up and down.

  “Call me Olivia,” she cooed.

  Call me disgusted, I thought. “Olivia, I’m dying to meet Kirk. You know . . . your fiancé?”

  Her head snapped up. She removed her hand from Bobby’s light grasp. “You’re going to love him.” Olivia led us up the front walk.

  Hanging back, I squeezed Bobby’s arm. “She’s engaged, for Pete’s sake.”

  He smiled back, pretending not to hear.

  The front door opened into the living room or, as Mrs. Blocken liked to call it, the parlor. The inside of the house had changed as well. Mrs. Blocken had obviously maxed out her creative resources and her husband’s credit cards. The interior was faux-finished within an inch of its life.

  Olivia’s parents stood by the door, ready to greet their guests. I met Mrs. Blocken’s gaze and the temperature dropped several degrees. Then again, some things never change.

  Chapter Three

  I hadn’t spoken to Olivia’s parents since the unfortunate incident at Olivia’s high school graduation party. Sure, sometimes I would spot them in the local market but would dive down the next available aisle before they could recognize me.

  “Look who’s here,” Olivia told her parents.

  Mrs. Blocken extended a narrow hand with polished nails. She barely brushed my hand with hers. “Thank you for coming.”

  Mrs. Blocken had abandoned the helmet bob that had bolstered her through the decades. In its place, she’d fashioned her hair in a short cut. Her hair was only a deeper shade of red than her daughter’s. The coif framed her face and elongated her tight neck. Plastic surgery? I thought so. She wore a sundress so frighteningly similar to Olivia’s that I blinked. Bobby noticed the twin routine too, judging by the amused expression on his face.

  I introduced Bobby, and Mrs. Blocken held out her hand to Bobby in the same manner that she had to me. However, when he took it, she held on longer than necessary. Bobby’s physical appearance enthralled all generations of women. “And will you be India’s guest for the wedding?”

  A look of panic flashed across Bobby’s face.

  I took mercy on him. “No, unfortunately Bobby is working next Saturday. He’s a fellow librarian at Martin.”

  Mrs. Blocken eyed me. “Then who are you bringing?”

  “No one,” I said, the fake smile on my face already starting to hurt. “I didn’t think it would be fair to bring a date since I will be so busy as a bridesmaid.”

  Bobby snorted, and I covertly stomped on his sandaled foot.

  Mrs. Blocken’s attention returned to Bobby. “Are you all right?”

  He gave her one of his charming smiles. “Whatever you’re cooking smells heavenly.”

  She beamed. “Why, thank you.”

  I mentally rolled my eyes and turned to Dr. Blocken, who stood quiet beside his wife. Even though he tipped the scale at three hundred pounds and resembled a bear, Dr. Blocken was an utterly forgettable man in the shadow of his wife’s personality. He practiced dentistry in one of the oldest dental offices in Stripling. I recently heard from my mother, who had an ear for town gossip, that Mrs. Blocken wanted her husband to retire that year so that they could jet set through the Keys and the Continent. My mother told me that Dr. Blocken was resisting her. He would eventually fold, I suspected, but I liked him better for trying to stand up to Regina Blocken.

  Dr. Blocken pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His nails were bitten to the quick. “I thought I saw you shopping for groceries the other day, but whoever I saw disappeared, and I couldn’t be sure.”

  I laughed hollowly.

  Bobby disentangled his hand from Mrs. Blocken, and she paraded us to the backyard.

  Even though the sponged and dry-brushed walls of the Blocken home grated on my nerves, I preferred the cool
relief of the Blocken’s central air to the sweltering backyard. Bobby didn’t appear too thrilled, either.

  The lawn was expertly maintained. The grass, if measured, would prove to be exactly one inch high, and the flowers and plants were the attractive, if unimaginative, sort found outside of banks and office buildings. Every exposed patch of dirt was buried in a mound of pungent black mulch.

  Two umbrella tables sat on the generous patio. A gorgeous woman and a burly, thirty-something man sat at one of the tables. A sullen-looking teenager slouched alone at the other, slumped on a patio chair with her arms folded in a defiant, piss-off pose. She wore baggy boys shorts and a T-shirt that read, You’re not the brightest crayon in the box, are you? She had her improbably yellow hair cropped close to her head.

  With a start, I realized the teen was Olivia’s fifteen-year-old sister, Olga. I only recognized her because, despite the hair and the shirt, she was the identical version of Olivia’s teenaged self. I looked at her and at Olivia and back again. They had the same smooth forehead, straight nose, and wide mouth. For some reason, I found seeing Olga sitting at that table looking like she was ready to bolt more jarring to me than seeing Olivia earlier in the driveway. The last time I saw Olga she was eight or nine. That is how much time had passed between then and now, between seeing Olivia and her family every day to not at all.

  Olivia introduced the stunning woman, model-thin with a thick mane of curly black hair, as Bree Butler, Olivia’s former college roommate and maid of honor. I guessed she was of Mediterranean descent, maybe Greek, although her last name suggested nothing of the kind.

  Bree stood and hugged me. “Olivia always talked about your misadventures together. Did you really get lost in the sewer for two days when you were eleven?”

  I glanced at Bobby for help, but he was lost to me, floored by Bree’s beauty. “More like two hours.”

  “Bree’s a special education teacher at a public elementary school in Virginia,” Olivia told Bree. “India’s a librarian at Martin College. You probably have so much in common.”

  Right, I thought.

  Bobby added, “I’m a librarian, too. India and I are coworkers.”

  Thank you, Bobby.

  Bree giggled for no good reason. “I’d love to see Martin while I’m here.” She seemed to recollect me. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

  I glanced at the picnic table three feet away lined with soft drinks, iced tea, and lemonade. “Nothing thanks.”

  “Bobby, can I get you anything?” Bree asked.

  He shook his head mutely. It would be a long time before he recovered his voice.

  “Olivia?” Bree asked.

  Olivia waved her hand at the burly man. Using my world-renowned powers of deduction, I concluded that the man was Kirk, Olivia’s fiancé, and that he could bench-press my weight. Without looking at Bree, she said, “Bottled water, make sure it’s spring water, in a glass with a handful of ice.”

  “Right away.” Bree scurried off.

  I glanced at Bobby to see if he’d noticed Olivia’s dismissive tone. If he had, he didn’t indicate it. His eyes had followed Bree.

  Kirk rose from the table and lumbered toward us. He was an inch shorter than Olivia, who stood approximately five feet five. His hair was too blond and his skin too tanned. Husky and thick-chested, he reminded me of a lumberjack except he wore prep, not flannel, in a tight black T-shirt and tailored jean shorts. The effect was very S.W.A.T. meets weekend-wear. His biceps were so pronounced, his arms couldn’t rest easily at his sides. I towered over him in my flip-flops. Bemused, I wondered how Mrs. Blocken was going to trick him into wearing lifts during the ceremony. He kissed Olivia on the cheek.

  After Olivia made introductions, Kirk extended his hand first to Bobby then to me. The men shook harder than necessary in a testosterone Alamo.

  I wondered if he could crack a walnut with his calves.

  Kirk turned to me. “I’ve heard so much about you. Did you really set your parents’ garage on fire?”

  Olivia had evidently presented me as quite a hellion. “I was experimenting with a wood burner and a hot glue gun.”

  Bree returned with Olivia’s water. Bobby preened, running his fingers through his impeccable mane then shaking it out.

  “Kirk, do you want something to drink?” He nodded at her glass, and she half-turned to Bree. “Bree?”

  Bree scurried off. Bobby watched her go, then looked at Olivia. “How did you and Kirk meet?”

  Olivia laughed. “We work together.”

  So much for the great love-lost plot Bobby desired. She raised Kirk’s hand to her mouth and kissed it. Kirk beamed. If they started making out, I’d make a break for it.

  “Kirk owns a small chain of gyms in Virginia called Kirk’s Fitness Center.”

  Catchy, I thought. That explained the muscleman bod.

  Olivia rubbed Kirk’s arm like she was polishing a trophy into a special shine. “In college, I majored in physical therapy. After graduation, the first place I applied was at Kirk’s Fitness Center, because it came with a free membership.”

  Kirk looked lovingly at his bride-to-be. “I hired her because she was so hot.”

  Well, that certainly was a resounding affirmative action endorsement.

  “KFC is the most sought-after gym in northern Virginia,” Olivia said.

  “KFC?” I swallowed a joke about fried chicken.

  “Kirk’s Fitness Center is more than a gym; it’s a destination with spa treatments and juice bar.”

  I wondered if Olivia had recently written a brochure. I’d probably go for the juice bar but that was about it.

  “It must be difficult to own your own business in today’s economy,” Bobby said.

  “Fitness is big business, really booming. No matter what the market is doing, there are always fat people trying to get thin. We opened our fifth center last week.”

  I stared at Kirk, thinking that he was the polar opposite from Mark, making me even more sure that Mark had never had a real shot with Olivia. I wished Mark could realize that and move on.

  I turned my body away from the group so they couldn’t see my expression. I watched Dr. Blocken place a plate of hot dogs and hamburgers from the grill next to the platter of fried chicken. Thank goodness for the veggie tray, I thought.

  “Please, everyone. The food’s ready,” Mrs. Blocken called from the patio. We trooped to the picnic table. I filled my plate with carrots, celery, and a heaping helping of potato salad. Bobby and I sat with Bree and sulky Olga. During the meal, Bobby lobbied for Bree’s attention. They discussed their respective jobs and families, trading all vital statistics. I began to wonder how long politeness required me to stay at the Blockens. One hour? Two? Certainly not three.

  “I wish my mother could have come to the wedding. She’s so fond of Olivia,” Bree told Bobby. She dabbed a napkin to her eye.

  “Why couldn’t she?” Bobby asked.

  “She hasn’t been feeling well.” Bree looked mournful.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you close?” He all but batted his eyelashes at her.

  Bree nodded. “She was a single mom, and I’m her only child.”

  “Family is definitely the most important thing in my life.”

  I swallowed a snicker. Bobby only visited his family on Christmas and every third Thanksgiving.

  Bree beamed at him over her cheeseburger.

  Feeling frumpy and churlish in comparison, I turned to Olga. “Nice T-shirt, Olga.”

  She snorted some type of response that, even though I don’t speak teen angst fluently anymore, I interpreted as, Leave me alone; I’m busy being unhappy.

  Taking another tack, I said, “I like your hair color,” I paused. “It’s vibrant.”

  She touched her hair, but didn’t respond. Not even a snort. But just when I was about to give up on her, she mumbled, “Oh em.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, leaning closer.

  She looked me in the eye for t
he first time. “O.M. My name’s O.M. Never call me Olga. Ever.”

  “No problem.”

  Olga—sorry O.M.—must have used up her daily word limit. She was silent for the remainder of the meal. I shrugged and enjoyed the food, watching Bobby salivate over Bree and counting the ways I could tease him about it later. At the next table, Olivia, gathered with her parents and Kirk, organized wedding logistics.

  I overheard Mrs. Blocken say, “The doves will arrive early in the morning on the wedding day.”

  “Mother, I told you that I don’t want doves. What if they get loose? It’s too much of a bother.”

  “What if the birds poop on the guests?” Kirk asked.

  Mrs. Blocken gaped at Kirk. I choked on a bite of potato salad.

  Olivia gasped. “Ohmigawd. They’ll ruin everything. Mother, cancel the doves,”

  “If the bird handler wants the good money that your father and I are paying him, he’ll keep those doves in line,” Mrs. Blocken said.

  Considering her tone, if I were one of those doves, I would certainly control myself.

  “But Mother . . .” Olivia said.

  “Honey, it’ll be charming. I’ll handle it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “How can the handler stop the birds from pooping?” Kirk asked. Obviously he hadn’t spent much time with Mrs. Blocken. It was probably a very good thing that he and Olivia lived in Virginia, hundreds of miles from Stripling.

  Mrs. Blocken gritted her teeth.

  “Olivia should have everything that she wants.” Dr. Blocken bit his thumbnail. “If she doesn’t want the doves . . .” he trailed off. His thumbnail started to bleed.

  Mrs. Blocken slapped his hand. “Stop that.”

  A cell phone played the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Everyone began patting themselves down.

  “It’s me.” Olivia announced with a satisfied look.

  After several “Uh-huh,” “That’s rights,” and “Okays,” Olivia snapped her cell shut. She turned to her party. “Great news. Topaz is coming.”

  Everyone except Bobby and me, who had no idea what this meant, and O.M., too, because it would hurt her image, no doubt, cheered happily at this report. I took this as a bad sign.