Maid of Murder aihm-1

by Amanda Flower

  I hoped the physical activity of shifting five hundred heavy reference books would keep my mind off the fast-approaching afternoon and Olivia’s funeral. It wasn’t working.

  Our progress was slow, and a third of the way in, the recruits were already waving their white flags.

  Nasia picked up a microbiology tome that weighed more than she did. “Who cares about this stuff?”

  “Maybe a microbiology major,” Andy said.

  “Hey,” Erin said. “Don’t get those out of order. I organized that entire stack.”

  “Chill,” Nasia replied.

  “Okay, guys.” I relented. “Let’s take a break.”

  Andy slumped onto the floor, limbs flung out. “Thank God.”

  When I reached my post at the reference desk, Nasia had fled the scene and Erin and Andy had planted themselves behind the checkout desk. Andy tried to strike up a conversation with Erin, leaning his elbows and back against the counter. She grunted in reply. I laughed to myself and didn’t notice Bobby and Bree enter the library until they stood directly in front of me. I suppose they were wearing what could be classified as funeral chic: dark colors, sedate, well cut, and understated.

  Clever as ever, I said, “Oh, hi.” I really needed to sharpen my greetings; my speech continually regresses to that of a fifteen-year-old—and not an especially bright one.

  “Hello, India,” Bree spoke mournfully.

  Bobby nodded; we hadn’t spoken since I had accosted Bree in the parking lot on Monday afternoon.

  “India, I’m so sorry. I promised to tell you when Olivia’s funeral service would be. When I didn’t see you at the visitation hours yesterday, I remembered I hadn’t told you,” Bree said.

  “No need to apologize, Bree.” I said.

  Bree licked her glossed lips. “I’m so sorry about the position you’re in. We all know that you’re not responsible for your brother’s actions.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Unable to speak, I forced a snarl into a sad smile.

  “We’ll look for you at the funeral,” Bree promised.

  “India, can I have a word?” Bobby asked.

  “Why not?” I said, but my tone was sharp.

  Bobby grimaced. “Bree, I’ll meet you in the car.”

  If Bobby’s dismissal surprised her, she didn’t show it.

  “Shoot,” I said after she disappeared.

  “Not here.” Bobby motioned to the stacks.

  I sat at the reference desk longer than necessary to make my point and then followed him. Bobby led me to the farthest corner of the library’s main floor by the microfilm machines. To see an undergraduate this deep into the recesses of the library would be like seeing snow fall in Miami.

  I brushed dust off the end of the microfilm reader, leaned against it, and crossed my arms. “You couldn’t speak to me at the reference desk because . . .”

  “Please, India, don’t be a brat,” Bobby said.

  “A brat? You heard what she said. She thinks Mark did it.”

  “Bree doesn’t know Mark, okay? She’s making a decision that she can understand from the information she has, and from what the Blockens have told her.”

  “Have you told her otherwise?”

  Bobby played with the collar of his hundred-percent-cotton dress shirt. I had my answer.

  “We don’t really talk about it,” he conceded.

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Other things. Give her a break. Her mother’s ill.”

  “What’s wrong with her mother?” My tone was more civil.

  “Multiple sclerosis.”

  “Oh,” I said, subdued.

  “Yeah. Her mom’s only fifty-eight. She’s in a nursing home somewhere in Virginia, and not a very good one either. Bree’s having a tough time, being away from her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, mollified.

  Bobby patted me on the shoulder, accepting the weak apology. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Is Bree still staying at the Cookery Inn?” I asked as we trekked back through the labyrinth of shelving to the reference desk.

  “For now.” He gave me a sidelong glance.

  “Oh,” I replied, wondering what for now meant. I promised myself to study the thesaurus during my late shift. I recovered. “You know, she’s a perfect heroine for one of your stories.”

  Bobby laughed. “I think so, too.”

  “I’m not copyediting that one,” I said.

  “We’ll see you at the funeral?” Bobby asked.

  I nodded, although the thought of going to the funeral and seeing Mrs. Blocken again made my stomach clench. I slid into my seat behind the desk.

  He winked and walked over to Bree who was sitting on one of the couches by the new bookshelf. She looked very prim with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her lap. She was a much better bridesmaid candidate than I ever would be. Not that either of us were bridesmaids anymore.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I waited until the last possible minute to leave for the funeral. If I timed things correctly, I would be able to slip into the sanctuary before the service, but avoid greeting anyone.

  On the square, I parked in the Presbyterian lot and hurried across the square to the opposing side.

  The Lutheran church’s whitewashed siding and narrow steeple juxtaposed against the Presbyterian’s red brick and leaded stained glass. Minivans, SUVs, and family cars crowded the parking lots around the square. Even more vehicles blocked the tiny Lutheran lot. The hearse and caravan were primed and ready to drive to the gravesite.

  The church’s open doors allowed the summer breeze to tease the mourners in the unair-conditioned building. Ushers in sedate Sunday suits flanked the sanctuary’s tight entry.

  “Running late, Miss?” one whispered. He led me to my seat, thankfully in the back.

  I smiled weakly at him. I found myself seated next to a Martin professor I recognized, but couldn’t name. She nodded at me and glanced at her watch.

  A pipe organ droned from overhead in the balcony. No matter how well the non-denominationals have marketed a praise band, you would never find a drum set or a synthesizer in these Lutherans’ midst, only a stately pipe organ, and when they felt frisky, an upright piano.

  The ceiling peaked at eighty feet high; wooden buttresses supported its weight. The room held approximately twenty rows of pews split down the middle by a three-usher-wide aisle. The Blocken family and Kirk sat in the first two rows left of the aisle along with some members of the Blockens’ extended family who looked vaguely familiar. O.M.’s blue hair glowed in the muted sunlight that shone through the narrow windows. My seat, one row up from the last on the right.

  The coffin, which dominated the center of the aisle, stood closed with a blanket of yellow lilies and pink roses draped across its length. I exhaled an unwittingly held breath at the sealed casket. I’d been given the gift of remembering Olivia in life alone.

  The professor gave me a look of reproach. Perhaps she taught etiquette to the plethora of home ec majors on campus.

  Bobby and Bree sat in the row behind the Blockens, shoulders touching. Bobby glanced over his right shoulder every few seconds, scanning the crowd. I slunk low in my seat.

  The minister rose from his seat behind the pulpit. Rev. William Myer had been the senior pastor at St. Jude Lutheran Church since before I was born. For the last year he had been on the verge of retirement but had yet to make any formal announcement. He would be sorely missed by his congregation when he did decide to trade in his prayer book for a garden trowel. Many of the Lutherans feared their synod would send a fresh-faced seminarian to their majestic grounds to promote church growth and attract young people. Rev. Myer hadn’t bothered with either of those pursuits in decades.

  My mother and Rev. Myer traded wedding or funeral gigs when one or the other was out of town, which usually consisted of my mother on an idealistic crusade or Myer fishing in Canada.

  The funeral bulletin contained a
short biography of Olivia and a copy of her obituary, which I hadn’t read. I didn’t read it then either. The service would be short with a brief sermon from Rev. Myer and a few hymns. No eulogies or Bible readings from family or friends. The simplicity of Olivia’s funeral stood in stark contrast to the extravagance of her wedding.

  Rev. Myer motioned for the assembly to rise. The organist caressed the chords of In the Garden.

  When the final note of the hymn ceased, Rev. Myer spoke in his somber baritone. “We are not here to mourn, but to celebrate the vibrant life of Olivia Blocken. When the young are taken from us, the pain is that much greater. But we have hope in the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  The more I strained to listen, the less I heard. Only snippets of phrases broke through my barrier: “loving,” “excellent student,” “community involvement,” “Olivia.” I bit the inside of my lip, shoulders tense with barely managed emotion. For the last few days, my brain had known Olivia died, but my heart hadn’t accepted that fact. I was an expert at diversion, and I distracted my heart with work, my parents, the Blockens, and Mark. But now, my heart slammed into a sharp learning curve.

  A kernel of fear crept into my mind like the haunting note of a hymn. If I had never befriended Olivia, if I had never allowed Mark to run around with us, maybe Olivia would never have been on Martin’s campus that day. She’d still be alive with a different bridesmaid number three, one that’s more attentive, one that’s more caring, one like Bree. I shivered.

  The ushers cum pall bearers marched up the aisle two-by-two. Rev. Myer turned his back to the assembly and placed his hand on the sealed casket in silent prayer, smothering a lily. The Blocken family, including Kirk and Bree, rose and shuffled out of the sanctuary to the melancholy chorus of the pipe organ. Rev. Myer followed them in his black robe. The procession ended with the coffin and pallbearers.

  Another pair of ushers dismissed the mourners row-by-row. From my row, I noted who attended the service and who did not. The mayor and his wife were among the first to leave, followed by some Martin dignitaries, including Lepcheck and the president. Cowardly, I pretended to read Olivia’s bio when Lepcheck passed my shoulder. Even after I knew he was gone, I continued to stare at Olivia’s bio. Three brief paragraphs. Again, I couldn’t read it.

  Someone pinched my arm. Bobby smiled down at me. I smiled back. The reception line had stalled. The Martin professor leaned over me. “Bobby, it’s so good to see you. Are you a friend of the family?”

  Bobby glanced past me. “Good afternoon, Adele. A friend of a friend.”

  “Oh, it’s so nice that you would sacrifice your afternoon for a friend of a friend.”

  Bobby grimaced. I looked away, afraid that I would laugh.

  “I know this isn’t the best time, Bobby, but I was wondering how the library plans to increase its materials budget for the philosophy department. If Martin wants to add such a prestigious major, they need to have the right resources for those students,” Adele droned.

  “You’re absolutely right, Adele.”

  She beamed at him.

  “The line’s moving.” He gave my arm another pat and moved on.

  Adele settled back into her seat in a huff. An academic scorned. I kept my mouth shut about the materials budget for the philosophy department. Lasha had mocked the proposal when it had crossed her desk.

  A pimply faced usher fidgeted next to my seat. I led my row into the reception line.

  The narrow narthex and doors of the church made it impossible for me to escape the line. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my skirt as I shuffled closer to the Blocken contingent.

  Bree shook my hand first. “So good of you to come.”

  I nodded. I tilted away from the Blockens, who were greeting the stream of mourners.

  Bree, clinging to my hand, yanked me toward her. I stumbled. “I see an opening after the woman in that god-awful bird hat. You can sneak through the door,” she whispered in my ear.

  I glanced at the woman in the hat, which was truly hideous, a wide black mesh number with a small starling clinging to the brim. A small opening revealing summer sunlight twinkled behind her, enough for a small man or an aggressive woman to slip through. I whispered a thank-you to Bree.

  Safely on the sidewalk, I rotated my tense shoulders under my thin suit jacket. The square was congested with mourners, hearse, and caravan. A Stripling police officer stepped out of his cruiser to direct the gridlock. I wove through a tangle of autos to the relative safety of the square’s center green, a tiny park with ancient sycamores, park benches, and a gazebo for weddings. I hurried through it and another tangle of vehicles to the Presbyterian lot.

  The steering wheel burnt my hands. As I rolled down both windows and leaned back on the scorching vinyl headrest, I clenched my eyelids.

  A loud metallic pop like an exploding aluminum soda can startled me. A featureless face leaned into the car. I screamed, giving any B movie heroine a run for her money.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Relax,” A voice broke through my hysteria. “India?”

  I gulped down the last cry on my lips. Psycho killers don’t usually know your name. Unless they’re stalkers, my brain added. I took a breath to scream again.

  “It’s Rick.”

  Rick? Rick who? Mains. Oh. Does he want me to call him Rick? I’m not calling him Rick, I thought.

  I peered through the open window. Mains’s face loomed white as Santa’s beard. Served him right.

  I braced my hands on my chest and thrust my heart back behind my sternum. He backed up from the car door.

  “You nearly gave me a heart attack. I could sue the city for this. Terrorizing law-abiding citizens,” I said.

  “Whoa there,” he said as if I were a testy gelding. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but you overreacted.”

  “Overreacted? Overreacted.” I struggled out of my car and the heavy door pinched my left calf on the way out. After freeing myself from the metal beast, I slammed the door shut. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m a little on edge.”

  Mains threw his hands up like one of his perps. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Yeah, well.” I couldn’t think of anything to end the sentence. I leaned on the hood of the car to mask my confusion.

  I noticed how the sunshine reflected off Mains’s dark hair. Carmen had been right: he did have great hair. No, no, no, no. I will not do this. He’s not cute, I told myself. I can’t think that. I tried to focus on Mark freezing to death in the Justice Center jail cell. Leave, my brain begged. Leave now.

  Mains interrupted my inner debate. “Who was that guy you were chatting up at the funeral?”

  “You were at the funeral? I never saw you.”

  “I sat directly behind you. You never looked back.”

  He must mean Bobby, I thought. I took a breath. “Why do you care who that guy was? Is he wanted for something?”

  He scowled and wiped his damp forehead with a gray handkerchief that matched his tie. “We need to talk.”

  The metal hood burned the back of my thighs, but I didn’t move. The temperature camped in the high eighties and the humidity was as stubborn. I removed my jacket and tossed it through the open window onto the seat. “Why, Detective?”

  “Your brother was arraigned this morning. To my surprise, Lewis Clive stated that bond would not be posted on Mark’s behalf.”

  I ignored the implied questions. “How much?”

  “A hundred thousand.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars,” I whispered. “Why?”

  “The judge believes Mark is a flight risk.”

  I had a sinking feeling. “Who was the judge?”

  “The Honorable Martha Luckas.”

  As I feared. Back when the Honorable Martha Luckas was only a public defender, she was my family’s next door neighbor on Kilbourne Street. Many times, my daydreamy brother would ride his mountain bike through her impeccable front lawn and flower beds in his haste to return home t
o his beloved calculus problems.

  “Of course, it would be her.” I laughed mirthlessly. “A flight risk? Mark doesn’t know a soul outside of Stripling.” I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and willed myself to breathe normally.

  “By the way the judge was staring down your brother, Mark’s lucky she set bond at all.”

  I removed my hands. “Is Stripling really this corrupt?”

  “Not corrupt.” Mains said, nonplused. “Small.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why isn’t your family posting bail?”

  Before I could answer or avoid an answer, heavy footsteps approached from behind. Unwilling to be caught unaware again, I spun around. Kirk jogged across the parking lot. He waved a hand over his head. “Detective!”

  Mains stepped away from me and approached Kirk.

  Despite the humidity, Kirk wasn’t winded from his jaunt across the square, a fringe benefit of his peak physical condition. Another benefit would be the ability to crack Brazil nuts with his biceps.

  Mains greeted Kirk in muted tones, but Kirk spoke normally. “How’s the case going? Are you going to get him? I would’ve been at the courthouse today, if it hadn’t been . . .”

  Mains made uninformative and generic statements about the case against my brother, obviously aware of my proximity.

  “I can testify,” Kirk declared. “Anything to put that bastard away.”

  My best recourse was to slip into my car and drive away. The ancient door hinges wailed under the simple movement. With the speed of a greyhound, Kirk was beside me. He smacked the hood of the car. I wondered if the automobile would require body work after all its post-funeral love taps. Not that the pounding could make it look much worse.