Dying for a Clue

by Judy Fitzwater

  She stared up into the darkness at her bedroom ceiling. What would it be like to go off to college, excited about a new life with new friends, and then have this kind of bombshell dropped on her? To have the entire foundation of her life, down to her name, topple out from under her?

  Jennifer’s own world had fallen apart when she was not all that much older than Diane. When she was a senior in college, her parents had died in a car crash. Nothing mysterious, nothing unusual. So ordinary, in fact, that it only merited a paragraph in the B section of the Telegraph. A few sentences to announce that Jennifer Marsh’s world had changed profoundly and irrevocably. One moment they’d been alive, loving her, being loved by her. And then they were gone.

  She’d grieved until there was nothing left in her, and it hadn’t made any difference. They weren’t coming back, no matter how much she prayed or how desperately she thought she would die. But she had one thing that couldn’t be taken from her: the absolute and complete knowledge that her parents had loved her with all their hearts. Diane didn’t have that—not from her birth parents. She hadn’t even known they existed. And now she was grieving for something she didn’t even understand.

  Jennifer rolled onto her side, propped her head up on her hand, and pushed away her memories. Johnny Zeeman. Maybe he wasn’t quite the tough guy he seemed to be. He’d agreed to help Diane without a retainer. But then, maybe he’d sensed money. Lanier wasn’t exactly a poor man’s college. It cost every bit as much as an Ivy League school. Maybe Johnny figured her parents would come through with the cash. He’d milk it along, an adopted child’s fantasy. Who knows? Maybe even a little blackmail if they were reluctant to pay.

  Still, he’d contacted the nurse, and somehow persuaded her to help. Only she’d died instead, leaving a really big question: did the nurse’s death have anything to do with Diane Robbins or was it some weird coincidence?

  Jennifer flung herself down on the mattress, trying again to sleep on her side, then her back, and, in desperation, upside down. Nothing seemed to work. The red numbers on her bedside clock changed with the minutes. The last ones she remembered reading were 2:57.

  The sound was so soft that it barely penetrated Jennifer’s sleeping brain. She stirred, wishing it away, wanting nothing more than to turn over and burrow back into the covers. But something inside her knew better and brought her suddenly and fully awake.

  In the dark, she could hear Muffy stir. A puff of air blew against Jennifer’s cheek. The dog had planted her head on the edge of her pillow, nose-to-nose with her, her eyes shining eerily. Jennifer stared at those luminescent moons as the dog drew herself up, obviously about to let out one of her major woofs.

  Jennifer’s mind suddenly cleared. She clamped her hand around the dog’s muzzle and silently shushed her as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across her forehead and down her chest. Someone was in the living room.

  The dog wiggled in her grip and started to whine. Jennifer slapped her hard on the ear, all the time holding tight to the dog’s face.

  Muffy looked up at her. A betrayed whimper escaped Jennifer’s grip. She’d have to explain later. Right now she had an intruder to deal with and a plan to execute.

  As a mystery writer, she’d thought more than once about what she might do if someone broke into her apartment. But she’d never actually expected to put it into action. And somehow she’d failed to include a greyhound in the mix.

  With her free hand she dug out of the covers and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Gently she tugged Muffy to the door. It was ajar.

  She could hear them now. It sounded like two men, murmuring somewhere out there. And there were muffled sounds of objects being moved, drawers being opened.

  Muffy was about to burst. She struggled back and broke from Jennifer’s grip, letting out a horrendous howl.

  Jennifer slammed the door shut, pushed in the button on the pitiful excuse for a lock, and hit the light switch. Muffy growled and scratched at the door as Jennifer flew around the dresser and, wedging herself between it and the side wall, drew up her legs and pushed with all of her might, straining her back and cramping her legs. The dresser slid forward, against the door, just as the knob turned and rattled. Muffled curses poured from the other side, followed by a loud thump that sounded like flesh, and lots of it, hitting against the wood.

  The dresser with her undies and sweaters wouldn’t keep anyone out long. She dove for her mother’s blanket chest that lay at the foot of the bed, tugged it sideways and rammed it with all her strength against the dresser. Then she pulled the double bed sideways, in line with both the chest and the dresser, forming a wall-to-wall barrier. The only way they’d get in now would be by beating down the upper part of the door, which, at the moment, seemed like a distinct possibility.

  Muffy was hysterical, transformed into a primitive creature defending her alpha wolf and promising to eat alive anything or anyone that broke through their barrier.

  Jennifer allowed herself the first full breath of air she’d taken since she heard the noise that awakened her.

  But the next blow against the door put her brain back into drive and sent her scurrying for the phone. Whoever was on the other side of that door had to be armed. No one with any sense would break into a room with a raging dog unless they were.

  She lifted the receiver to an open line. The vermin had taken the extension off the hook. She dropped it, flew to the window, and threw it open.

  Her apartment was on the second floor above a sheer, twenty-foot drop onto grass, with a thin strip of sidewalk just to make things interesting. It wasn’t so high, really, for anyone with any kind of athletic ability. To Jennifer, it seemed certain death.

  She looked at the mattress. Too big. She’d never get it through the window. She grabbed the two pillows off the bed and tossed them out. They landed a good six feet apart. Then she scrambled across the bed and tore open the closet door, reaching high for the two spares she kept for company. Diving back across the bed, she tossed those out the window, too.

  She heard the door splinter and grabbed Muffy, dragging her, barking and struggling, back to the window. The dog lurched against her grip, but Jennifer held her tightly against her chest as she draped one leg across the window sill, poised to jump. They’d probably break something, most likely their heads, but she had no intention of being in that room if the door came open. Or leaving Muffy behind.

  She took in a great breath of cool night air and tried to scream, but only a hoarse croak came out. Her vocal chords were knotted like fists inside her throat.

  A thought flashed in her mind. She forced herself back inside, struggling against Muffy’s attempts to break free, and turned on her clock radio to full volume. Then she took up their perch on the sill again, and steeled herself, listening through the wail of the oldies station, waiting for the final assault on the door.

  In the distance she heard sirens. Thank God for Mrs. Thorne.

  Chapter 6

  Short, round Mrs. Thorne shoved a cup of hot tea into Jennifer’s hands. Why was it always tea? Jennifer hated tea, but she drank it anyway, grateful to have something to hold onto and something hot to soothe the shivers that skittered up her arms and down her legs.

  At least she was safe. She had to be. Half of Macon’s police force was standing in her apartment with a full view of her PJs. Fortunately they were her new ones, the ones with no holes in embarrassing places. And they were big, the sleeves reaching to her knuckles and the pants catching at her heels. She might not be decent, but she was covered.

  She’d answered all their questions as best she could. No, she didn’t know who had jimmied one lock and broken the other. No, she didn’t see anything missing. No, thank God, she hadn’t gotten a look at the intruders. No, it didn’t make sense to her either.

  Her computer, TV, and sound system, such as they were, were all still there. She’d flown to the closet to check her manuscripts, her most valuable possessions. They, of course, were untouched—all nine of
them—valuable only to her.

  Her refrigerator had been rifled through, as had every drawer, cabinet, and closet in the place. The bedroom would have been next. An entire panel had been splintered in the attempt to break in the door, and then the police had been forced to break it down the rest of the way. The dresser, the chest, and the bed were wedged so tightly against it, there was no way she could have moved them herself. Besides, she and Muffy seemed to have become one with the windowsill.

  The police had treated her like a jumper they were trying to talk off a ledge. One older patrolman had lost patience and simply pried her hands loose. It worked. To Muffy’s great relief.

  But now the police had lost interest in her, apparently in agreement that she was totally useless in helping them. They were left her alone while dusting for fingerprints and looking for fiber evidence. Which had left Mrs. Thorne her opening.

  “Sit down, dear,” Mrs. Thorne insisted, pushing Jennifer onto the couch and adjusting a pillow behind her.

  She let herself be pushed, ready, for once, to let someone else be in charge. Besides, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Thorne...

  Muffy laid her head against Jennifer’s thigh and whimpered softly. It had been a rough night for both of them. She stroked the dog’s neck.

  But Jennifer was hanging in there—right up until she spotted Sam walking through her front door.

  His dark hair was a mess, his shirt open at the throat, his sports coat rumpled. But what made her lose it was his face: gaunt, exhausted, fearful.

  She didn’t know how he found out and she didn’t care. She set down her teacup and ran barefoot to him. He hugged her tight. “Are you all right?” he whispered in her ear.

  She couldn’t answer, only sob and nod vigorously against his neck.

  Sam. Thank God he had come. He cared about her, cared that she was alive, not like the police, who cared about everyone. If something happened to her, he would miss her, miss her part in his life, like she would miss him. She clung to him, ignoring how the stubble of beard on his neck scratched her face and the wool tweed of his jacket made her cheek itch. She felt safe for the first time since she’d awakened that night.

  “Get your things,” he ordered. “You’re coming home with me.”

  Chapter 7

  Sam’s apartment was a couple of blocks off Vineville, near the historic district, on one of the city’s few remaining brick streets. Unlike Atlanta, Sherman had missed Macon in his march to the sea, and the town would be forever grateful for it.

  Unfortunately, Sam’s appreciation of history was not matched by his housekeeping or decorating skills. While he gave lip service to the honor of living in one of these old row houses that had been divided into apartments, she secretly didn’t think he deserved it. He’d lived there for over a year and still didn’t have proper drapes over the windows, and he’d made no effort to furnish it.

  And then there was his lifestyle. It had a tendency to interfere with neatness. Copies of the New York Times, the Washington Post, USA Today, and the Philadelphia Inquirer lay scattered across the furniture and spilled onto the floor.

  Jennifer unleashed Muffy, who took a wild, panting swing through the generous living room before plopping down on the book section of the Post. Jennifer dragged her duffel bag out of the doorway and collapsed in the only good chair.

  Sam set her computer in the corner by the makeshift brick and lumber bookshelf and headed straight to the refrigerator for a beer. He shoved the bottle in her direction between gulps, but she declined with a shake of her head. She could barely tolerate beer under any circumstances, but at seven o’clock in the morning? To be fair, it must have seemed to him like the end of a very long night.

  He settled into the bean bag held together with well placed duct tape and struggled out of his sports coat. “That didn’t look like some random burglary to me,” he said. “Kids do that kind of thing, the people wake up, and they’re outta there. Professionals do it, they hear a dog, and they’re on to the next, easier target. What’s more, they didn’t take anything. So what’s your best guess?”

  She shook her head. “I told you. I don’t have one.” She’d even confessed to her liaison with Johnny Zee and the visit from Diane Robbins while they loaded her belongings into her Volkswagen and his Honda. She knew she shouldn’t feel defensive, but she did. She didn’t know what was going on. Besides, she was the victim here, and it might help if he could remember that. Victims weren’t the ones with the answers. At least, not this one.

  He looked to be thinking, but he wasn’t about to share. He probably didn’t want to scare her, which scared her even more.

  Sam ran his hand through his dark, sleek hair. That was better. It looked more like she liked it—slicked back with stray strands falling over his right eye. She had to be careful about those eyes. They were the deepest, darkest blue, and when she looked too far into them...Well, she just needed to keep her perspective.

  “Zeeman,” he grunted, propping his legs on the trunk that served as a coffee table, a real trick from that angle. “How the heck did you get hooked up with that screwball? You couldn’t have found a bigger nut if you’d picked him out of the phone book.”

  Jennifer put her hand over her throat to cover the blush she felt spreading down her neck. “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “Of him. He used to be on the force, way back at the dawn of time. He and Schaeffer started out together, even partnered for a while.”

  So that explained the friction between the two.

  “There was a question of integrity,” Sam went on. “Some evidence disappeared in one of their cases, or so the story goes. No charges were brought, but Schaeffer’s had it in for him ever since. He’s not someone you want your name associated with. He has a way of getting into messes he should have walked away from, and now he’s dragged you right into the middle of this one.”

  “You think Johnny Zeeman and the murdered woman have something to do with the break-in?” The thought had occurred to her, but she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. She’d had other matters to deal with, like executing her escape plan, trying to stay alive, entertaining the police, packing, and keeping Muffy off the car windows. She was hoping he’d convince her it was a ridiculous idea.

  “The thought crossed my mind. What do you know about the East Lake Fertility Clinic?” he asked.

  She would have preferred a simple no.

  She shrugged. “I’ve passed by it a few times when I was in that part of town, but that’s all.”

  He nodded and finished off the beer, letting the bottle slip to the carpet. Muffy scooted over and licked the neck. Absently, he batted her nose. “They keep a relatively low profile, considering the kind of business they’re in.”

  He got up and went down the short hall to the bathroom, but soon poked his head back out, talking around a mouthful of toothbrush and toothpaste. “Feel free to take the bed. I probably won’t be back until after you’ve gone to your writers’ meeting tonight. I’ve got to spend most of the day covering district court, but who knows what else they’ll put me on. I don’t have any idea what time I’ll be back, so I’ll plan to eat there. If it looks like the same old, same old, I’ll cut out early.”

  That was the worst part of his working for The Macon Telegraph. She never knew where he’d be when.

  “And I’ll see if I can’t find out something about that nurse, Hoffman. What made her so special that somebody would want her dead.”

  He ducked back into the bathroom and emerged with his hair combed, his face shaved, and looking only slightly worse than usual for having spent most of the early morning up with her.

  As he swept past, heading for the door, she grabbed his hand. “What you said about Hoffman—you think she was killed because she was going to give Zeeman information?”

  He bent down and gave her a sweet, chaste kiss, and Muffy a quick rub behind the ear. For a moment he stared at her, nose-to-nose, and she thought he was going to kiss her again. But
he stood up and straightened his tie, all business.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Could be she was killed because somebody thought she deserved to die. That’s what I intend to find out.”

  At the door, he stopped and turned back. “Are you going to be all right? Maybe I could get somebody to cover—”

  “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

  He nodded. “There’s...actually, there’s nothing in the refrigerator except beer and milk. But Kroger’s not that far away.”

  She made shooing motions with her hands. She had her car and she certainly knew how to feed herself. She’d been doing it for years, and had yet to starve.

  “Keep the doors locked, and don’t let anybody in you don’t know. And don’t go back to your apartment.” He looked her dead in the eye. “Promise me.”

  The nerve. As if she were two years old and couldn’t be trusted.

  She drew a cross over her heart with her index finger. “I promise.”

  At least for now. At least until she got the locks on her door replaced, and a solid core door installed to her bedroom with a good three-inch dead bolt. At least until she had purchased one of those chain ladders that hang outside windows. At least until she had some idea who the heck would want something they thought she had.

  Chapter 8

  Sam really meant it. There was no food in his apartment. None. She’d been through every drawer and every cabinet. All she’d found were a package of stale crackers and a left-open bag of barbeque potato chips. She’d even taken an inventory of his refrigerator: assorted out-of-date condiments and, of course, beer. Why, the man didn’t even have ice cream.

  And she’d had no time for shopping. She’d had to hightail it over to Dee Dee’s to help put together a catering order for a birthday party that evening. She’d hoped keeping her hands busy would be a distraction from the last twenty-four hours, but Dee Dee insisted on turning on her kitchen TV while they worked.