I asked how, and he frowned some more. “During a routine traffic stop. Routine until the bullets started flying.”
I let that tragedy sink in as Wilson donned his suit jacket. “Most everyone went down for her funeral. Densmore, Sass, a bunch of others.”
“Not you?”
“I’d only known her for a year before she left Clarence, so I volunteered to stay here. Someone had to keep this city safe for democracy. Speaking of which.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and headed toward the door.
But the stack of Sensual and Scintillating languishing on my coffee table caught his attention. He picked one up, and shoved it into my hands . “Sex scenes,” he said and was gone.I clutched S and S to my chest and stalwartly marched over to my desk. While I booted up my laptop, Snowflake made herself comfortable on the windowsill.
“A sex scene if it kills me,” I told her, and my muse yawned accordingly.
But who knows if it would have killed me? Because a sex scene, or any other scene for that matter, evaded me completely. I was actually relieved when the intercom buzzed and the less-than-dulcet voice of Rita Sistina wafted through my condo.
“Get me out of here!” she demanded.
Snowflake found her safety spot on top of the fridge, and I buzzed in our guest.
***
“Lunatics! Every last one of them!” Rita was saying—or rather shouting—as I opened the door. She marched over to the couch and sat down. “Can’t you at least offer me coffee?”
I did so, and while I prepared a pot of decaf, Rita gave me a refresher course on the shenanigans at street level.
“It was bad enough the other day,” she said. “But now it’s a three-ring circus—Alistair Pritt and his clowns, Jimmy Beak and his, and now that romance woman and her group. They’re the scariest of all, you know? They invited me to dance with them.”
I swallowed a smile and served the coffee. “At least Roslynn Mayweather’s on my side,” I said as I sat down.
“And at least she’s keeping busy.” Rita glared at me over her coffee cup. “Which is more than I can say for some people.”
I cleared my throat and insisted I was trying. “But sometimes the writing just doesn’t flow as smoothly—”
“Writing!” Rita snapped forward. “I’m not here to talk about your writing! We had a deal, Jessie. In fact, why are you even here?” She waved an exceedingly agitated hand to indicate my condo. “You should be at the high school! Elizabeth tells me she hasn’t seen you there since that one measly visit days, and days, and days ago!”
I reminded Rita I had visited the school on Monday. “And today is only Wednesday.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Elizabeth’s future is at stake! We had a deal, you and me!”
“Yes, but the situation has changed.” I explained, as vaguely as possible, that the murder investigation had taken a new direction. “I can’t be more specific, but I really can’t be sleuthing right now.”
Rita put down her coffee cup. “Well then, let me be specific. You stop sleuthing, and Frankie stops seeing my daughter. A deal’s a deal.”
“Come on, Rita.” I sat up and prepared to do battle. “You’re the first person to insist Lizzie wasn’t to blame for the murder, so why punish her?”
“Her name is Elizabeth. And the Smythe boy has got to go.”
I studied my guest. “So tell me,” I said. “How did Elizabeth do on that algebra test?”
Rita blinked twice.
“You know,” I continued. “The one she and Frankie were studying for the other night?”
Rita took a deep breath. “The teacher’s giving them back in class today. But she posted the grades on the school’s internet grade book last night.”
“And?”
“And Elizabeth got a 95. Your stupid friend Frankie called. He got a 98.”
By the look on Rita’s face I assumed she had hoped Lizzie would do even better. But with a bit more prompting, I learned that 95 was the best math grade Lizzie had seen all year.
“Then why do you seem so disappointed?” I asked, and to her credit, Rita answered honestly. Apparently my “stupid friend Frankie” was helping Lizzie in her hardest subject.
“He’s always been a straight-A student,” I said proudly.
“As has Elizabeth.” Rita frowned. “Except in math. I made a deal with my daughter. I promised her an electric piano to join a band with her girlfriends. But only if she improved her math grades.” Rita sighed dramatically and informed me Lizzie’s math grades had been steadily improving all semester.
I smiled. “Since she started dating Frankie.”
“Okay, yes,” she snapped. “Since then.”
I sat back and smiled some more.
***
Thus assured that Frankie’s love life was safe and sound, I fortified Rita with another cup of coffee to face the circus on Sullivan Street, and sent her on her way.
Then I had a choice. I could tackle A Singular Seduction and Willow’s well issues, or I could tackle the voice mail messages I’d been avoiding all morning. Geez Louise Urko had left numerous messages the previous night while Wilson and I were busy narrowing down murderer suspects. I deleted the first five, warned Snowflake to stay put in her safety spot, and hit play.
“Jessica! I’m so sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!”
“Sorry?” I asked as Louise continued.
“Dee Dee promised we’d get at least four minutes’ airtime. Stupid, stupid, stupid Congressional budget impasse! But the short segment was fantastical enough! Lemonade out of lemons! Didn’t Roslynn do fantastically?”
I nodded silent agreement.
“Oh!” Louise’s voice continued. “And didn’t the debutante look fantastical? The Debutante’s Destiny is one of 3P’s best, best, best covers! Don’t you just love the fuchsia pink?”
I nodded again.
“And don’t you just love Alistair Fitt?”
I most decidedly shook my head no to that one, but Louise continued anyway, “The Queen of Smut has a fantastical ring to it! It’s a great new by-line for your next book! We’ll put it right on the cover! Right under Adelé’s name! Oh! And speaking of A Singular Seduction, how are the sex scenes coming along? Sex, sex, sex!”
I hit delete, and was apologizing to Snowflake for listening as long as I had when I noticed one final message.
“My mother called,” I said. Snowflake meowed her approval and hopped down to listen. Instead, I hit delete and punched in Mother’s number.
“Hello, Miss Queen of Smut,” she chirped happily. “I so enjoy this caller ID system you suggested, Jessie.”
“Mother! Please tell me you haven’t programmed me in as the Queen of Smut.”
“Don’t be silly. But wasn’t Dee Dee Larkin’s report last night marvelous? You and Louise must be so pleased. Roslynn, too. She certainly held her own again that Alistair fellow, didn’t she?”
I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess. You think it was good publicity.”
“Don’t you? I’m no expert on these things, but have you considered putting ‘The Queen of Smut,’ below Adelé’s name on your next cover? I bet A Singular Seduction would sell like hotcakes if you did that!”
***
Somehow satisfied my mother wasn’t traumatized by Dee Dee Larkin’s report, I called my neighbors. Maybe if I begged, one of them would agree to come upstairs for a brainstorming session.
“I need your help,” I told Karen. “Maybe you can convince Willow and Kipp to hop into a haystack together.”
“Are you feeling well, girlfriend?” Karen reminded me she doesn’t read romance, much less write it, and claimed she had a pressing appointment with some custom cabinetry.
“I’m finishing up a few pieces and then heading out to install them before the big wedding.”
“These cabinets aren’t for Trisha Fister, by any chance?” I asked.
“Well, yeah. The wedding of the century is this Saturday. So I better get a move on.
”
“Believe it or not, this same wedding is keeping Candy busy also. Mrs. Marachini’s related to the bride.”
“Kiddo told me,” Karen said. “And this bride is something else, Jess. A fire destroyed all her shower gifts, and now everyone in town is hustling to keep her happy—aunts, uncles, cousins, godparents.”
“You.”
“Me,” she agreed. “You should see the honeymoon mansion. The kitchen alone stretches a good half mile. The mother of the bride promised me I’ll never work in this town again if I don’t get these cabinets installed before the wedding.” Karen hesitated. “Speaking of the W-word.”
I groaned out loud, but she ignored me.
“I saw Wilson leaving this morning,” she said. “He didn’t look so good. The poor guy needs a wedding of his own.”
“No,” I said firmly. “The poor guy needs is to solve the Miriam Jilton case.”
Karen asked if we had any theories.
“We do,” I said. “But it’s even more complicated than Willow’s well issues.”
“Say what?”
I started explaining, but Karen interrupted to mention that mile of kitchen cabinets. “We’ll talk later,” she said. “We’ll cover all these W-issues—your writing, Willow’s well.” She skipped a beat. “Wilson’s wedding.”
I groaned again.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Marry Wilson, and I’ll build you guys some furniture as a wedding present. Anything you want for the little cottage.”
“It’s a shack,” I said, but she had already hung up.
A call to Candy proved equally fruitless.
“I’d love to brainstorm about Willow and Kipp,” she said. “But today’s the big day.”
“Mrs. Marachini’s much-anticipated emergency shopping spree, correct?”
“The Fister-Bickerson wedding is right around the corner. Gosh, it’s a small world. All that stuff Karen’s building is also for Trisha.” Candy hesitated. “Speaking of the W-word.”
“W as in world?”
“Duh. W as in wedding. And speaking of your wedding—”
“We weren’t speaking of my wedding.”
“Speaking of your wedding, you need to come into Tate’s sometime soon. I’ll set you up with lingerie for your honeymoon. It’ll be my wedding gift.”
Chapter 32
Kipp Jupiter stood stock-still and watched Zachary Clark ride away. He had plenty of chores to get back to, but Kipp waited until Zachary disappeared beyond the horizon, and still he didn’t move.
The man had come all the way out from Hogan’s Hollow to warn him about his new neighbor. The lowdown, no-good Will LaSwann was out to get him—out to get Kipp’s land, to be exact.
According to Zachary, LaSwann, or LeSwine, or whatever he wanted to call himself, had ventured into Hogan’s Hollow that very morning and had spoken to everyone in town about Kipp. According to Zachary, LeSwine asked every question under the sun about Kipp’s land and how he had come to own the largest ranch on the prairie.
“I’d watch my back if I were you,” Zachary told him. “That new neighbor of yours is up to no good, or my name isn’t Zachary Zebediah Clark.”
Kipp Jupiter finally moved. Indeed, he turned in the direction of the LeSwine ranch and snarled accordingly. That varmint was after his ranch! That’s why he hadn’t paid any attention when Kipp tried explaining the water and well situation. Why bother? The greedy LeSwine had his eyes set on Kipp’s land instead!
Kipp took off his cowboy hat and swatted at a fly. “The varmint!” he exclaimed to the fifty or so steer grazing in the field before him.
***
“Varmint, swine?” I tore my eyes from my computer and spoke to a sleeping Snowflake. “Is there no end to Kipp Jupiter’s disdain?”
The cat opened one eye.
She was right of course. My stupid story wasn’t worth waking up for.
“Stupid Uncle Hazard.” I stood up and started pacing. “Why did he give his niece such stupid advice? Impersonating a man. Sheesh!”
Snowflake opened both eyes and stared at the nearest copy of Sensual and Scintillating.
I snatched it up and started rifling through the pages willy-nillly. “How are these people ever going to hop in a haystack together!?” I asked.
Snowflake gave up on her nap. She sat up and stretched, and made a point of ignoring my histrionics to watch the histrionics down at street-level.
I tossed the book aside and gave my long-suffering muse a few forehead-to-tail-tip strokes.
Varmints, swine. Whatever I wanted to call the fools outside, I needed some fresh air and exercise. I needed a walk.
I changed out of my sloppy writing attire, and into a pair of jeans and a summer cardigan, and was out the door before the thought of facing Jimmy and Alistair on limited sleep could deter me.
I hurried past the second floor landing and past Candy’s empty apartment. Ms. Poppe was off selling bras and other unmentionables to Mrs. Marachini and company. And before I even made it to the first floor lobby, I could hear the power tools buzzing from behind Karen’s door. She, too, was hard at work on those custom cabinets. I stopped short at Peter Harrison’s door. Even in retirement, he kept busy. I listened to the piano music coming from within.
But something wasn’t right.
I checked my watch. It was too early for afterschool piano lessons. And what about that music? Even I knew it wasn’t Mozart.
I reached out and knocked loudly.
***
“What did you think?” Peter asked as he invited me in.
I told him it sounded good to me and pointed to his piano. “But that certainly wasn’t Beethoven. It was Elton John. “Crocodile Rock” to be specific.” I tilted my head. “Are you feeling well?”
The old guy blushed and produced a stack of sheet music from beneath the piano bench. “All rock and roll,” he said as he handed it to me.
“But I’m the rock and roll enthusiast, Peter.” I shuffled through a stack of music I knew and loved. “You prefer classical music, remember?”
“Well,” he sang. “Lizzy Sistina is broadening my horizons.”
I looked up. “Her electric piano? Don’t tell me you’ve given up Beethoven for Lizzy and her girl group?”
“Of course not. But the girls have big plans. They’ve named themselves Like, The Lyricals, and they plan on playing at weddings. They want to put some rock and roll oldies into their repertoire.”
Peter swiped his thumb down the entire keyboard. “That move’s called a glissando,” he informed me. “Lizzie and I are embarking on a study of all the great rock pianists—Elton John, Billy Joel, Jerry Lee Lewis.”
“Stevie Wonder, Carole King.” I smiled. “I think I’m going to like The Lyricals.”
“No, Jessie. You going to like Like, The Lyricals.”
“I do like The Lyricals.”
“No,” Peter repeated. “The band’s name isn’t The Lyricals. It’s Like, comma, The Lyricals. Like, Like is part of the name.”
I shook my head and warned my neighbor I was functioning on very limited sleep.
“The murder investigation?” he asked. “Richard Dempsey continues to call me. He’s still worried this will ruin his retirement plans.”
I told him Principal Dempsey needn’t be concerned, and rummaged through the sheet music while Peter asked a string of questions I couldn’t answer.
“Here it is.” I slipped “Your Song” onto the top of the stack and handed it back. “That’s my favorite Elton John song. Perhaps because I’m a writer.” I tapped the sheet music. “I always thought it’d be a nice song at a wedding.”
Peter grinned. “Whose wedding are we talking about?”
***
“Stupid, stupid W-word,” I sputtered to myself as I stepped outside to face the usual jibes and insults from Jimmy, Alistair, and the like.
Oh, but what was this? Lord help me, they, too, had picked up on the wedding theme. Alistair and his gang sported ne
w posters—about the ‘Wedding Bell Blues,’ and being ‘Engaged To The Enemy.’
A gleeful Jimmy Beak bullhorned the significance to me in case I wasn’t catching on. “Captain Wilson Rye,” he shouted. “Engaged to the enemy!”
Yadda, yadda, yadda. I raced down the stairs, pushed Jimmy aside before Joe the cameraman could come to his rescue, and headed down Sullivan Street as fast as my feet could carry me. I didn’t even take time to wave to Roslynn.
Why aren’t there laws against such harassment, I asked myself as I made it past the fray. But if I despised book banning because it impinged on my right to free speech, then I had to accept Alistair and the ilk’s right to assemble, correct?
I shook my head and decided my sleep-deprived brain was ill-equipped to tackle questions concerning the Bill of Rights. I’d do better concentrating on Willow and Kipp.
Alas, no ready solutions presented themselves on that front either. And by the time I wandered onto Hamilton Avenue, my baffled brain had wandered back to thinking about the murder and Wilson’s enemies.
Annoying but true, I knew very little about my fiancé’s work. The man made a point of telling me virtually nothing about the people he had arrested over the years. Dianne Calloway being the perfect example.
Of course, I did know many of the people Wilson worked with. Call me naïve, but intuition dictated that none of those cops was a cold-blooded murderer. I thought about the two I had never met, Gene Fagan and Darla Notari. Unlikely or downright impossible. I didn’t need a degree in criminology to tell me dead people don’t kill.
Willow’s well, or Wilson’s arch-enemy. Whatever the problem, I had no solution, and by the time I rounded the corner onto Vine Street to head home, I was thoroughly annoyed. And passing the building where my ex-husband had seen fit to set up business didn’t help my mood any.
Whatever Wilson might say, Clarence really was a small city. I mean, how unlikely was it that my seriously irritating ex-husband’s equally irritating wife Amanda had actually witnessed Trisha Fister’s bridal-shower debacle? Leave it to Amanda Crawcheck to somehow be related to the kooky Marachini-Fister clan.
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