The students asked questions such as, “Can it be any genre?” and “What point of view do you want us to use?”
I decided a lot of the questions were asked just to keep him talking. Eyelashes batted as he turned to answer each of their questions. Were there any serious writers in this group, or were they all here to study the handsome instructor? Had Mitzi been as smitten with him as the others had? She hadn’t said so. Could he be the reason for the deadly lasagna?
“I’ll see you all on Monday. Have a good weekend.” He returned papers to a briefcase while the students filed out of the room.
I made a mental note of the men in class, there weren’t many. Could one of them have killed Mitzi? Unlikely, they would have shot her. Not killed her with food, my tired mind reasoned.
“Have fun on your date.” The woman who’d sat behind me offered in a semi-bitter voice. Her earlier venom had evaporated.
I turned to her and smiled. “It’s not a date.”
She dropped her note pad and pen into a small satchel. “Oh, I think it is. He’s never asked any of the rest of us out for coffee.”
I decided the best thing to do was take her mind off the good professor. With my hand extended, I announced, “I’m Claire Parker.”
“Martha Lewis.” She gave me a limp-wristed excuse for a handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Martha. What do you write?” I picked up my purse and walked with her toward the door.
It must have been the right question to ask because some of the frost melted from her tone as she answered. “Children’s stories, mostly. I’m hoping to win the contest.”
“What contest?” Could this contest have been an excuse to kill Mitzi?
“Well, it’s more like our final exam.”
I stopped and looked at her. “What’s the prize?”
“Publication in the school magazine. It goes out to all the students and alumni. Whoever wins will have a wonderful little piece of information to add to their writing portfolio.” She continued toward the door. “What do you write?”
I followed. “Honestly, I’m not sure.” I answered thinking about it for the first time.
“What do you enjoy reading?” The rich voice came from behind us.
I turned as he flipped off the light switch. “Historical romance.”
“Figures,” Martha muttered and left me standing in an empty classroom with the most handsome man I’d had the pleasure of meeting in years.
TITLE
Lethal Lasagna
Chapter 4
“What made you decide to observe my class?” Brandon cupped his coffee between his palms.
Being a Christian it is my duty to answer as honestly as I can, at moments like this I’d rather not answer at all. What did I really know about Brandon Harvest—besides the fact that he’s easy on the eyes? He could be the killer. “I’m an old friend of Mitzi Douglas.”
Sadness entered his caramel eyes. “She was a very talented writer and a good friend. Still that doesn’t tell me why you joined a creative writing class.”
Mitzi had never told me her professor was her friend. She’d not told me about Brandon at all. If I’d been the one to meet him first, I felt sure I’d have told her what a hunk he is, and she would have said, ‘step into the twentieth century Claire, men are no longer hunks. They’re hotties.’
I’m not sure if it was the melancholy sensation I’d just walked into or what, but I answered. “I plan on finding Mitzi’s murderer.”
His brows drew together, and he ran a hand through his thick looking hair. “You think you will find him in my class?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Right now, I’m just going where she went and doing some of the things she did.” I took a careful sip of my hot tea. The aroma of lemon and honey filled my senses.
“Ah.” He focused on his drink.
I waited. Nothing more came from his lips. He simply stared into the dark liquid in his cup. That was it just ‘ah’? Where were the questions? The comments? Anything at all would be better than his silence. Maybe he thinks I’m a crazed woman. If so, what did I have to lose by confessing? “The police think I did it.”
His head came up and serious light brown eyes studied me. “I doubt that is true.”
I felt the heat rush into my face. Had I actually said those words aloud?
“You don’t look much like a killer to me.”
Yep, I’d said them. “Thanks but if the killer looked like a murderer I’m sure the police would have caught him by now.”
A warm chuckled greeted my ears. His laugh enough to send my heartbeats into overtime. Not since Frank, had a man brought my senses to life like this. I found myself joining his laughter.
He continued to smile when he asked, “So, if you are the main suspect what’s kept them from arresting you?”
The question sobered me up. “I’m the one who found Mitzi. She was laying on the floor beside a pan that had lasagna in it. When I saw her, I pushed the pan away and left my fingerprints. I gave them the details when they arrived. So, on one point they believe me, because I’d told them I’d touched the pan, but on the other hand they aren’t sure because mine are the only prints at the scene that aren’t Mitzi’s.” I stirred my tea.
Fresh tears filled my eyes as I relived those moments of finding her. Tears I was determined not to let fall. I took a deep breath and slowly released it before looking across at Brandon.
He sat his cup down and reached across the table. His warm hand engulfed mine. “She was more than a friend wasn’t she?”
I nodded. “We weren’t sisters by birth but we were as close as any blood sisters could ever be.” His palm scratched mine. I wondered what Brandon did that would create calluses on his hands. Editing papers surely hadn’t created the rough skin.
“Then I am doubly sorry for your loss.” His voice sounded sincere and strong. He squeezed my hand and then released it.
I missed the warmth immediately. “Thank you.” I picked up my teacup and traced the blue china design that decorated the sides.
As if talking to himself, Brandon said. “I wonder how far the police have gotten in their investigation.” He took a drink from his cup before looking at me.
Where was my willpower? “They know now that she was poisoned.” I offered then gulped the now lukewarm tea. The flavor of honey teased my tongue.
He sat his cup down slowly. “Poisoning?” Brandon’s voice sounded so low and soft I questioned whether or not I’d heard him right.
I nodded.
He studied the wall behind me for several long moments. “Claire, how would you feel if I offered to help you find Mitzi’s murderer?”
Excitement raced through my veins. How would I feel? My first instinct was to squeal with happiness. I’d love to get to know this man better. My second reaction was to say no. Again, I had to ask myself, what did I know about him? My third thought was, I hope he can’t read what I’m thinking by the expressions on my face.
As if he knew the turmoil my thoughts were going through, Brandon offered, “Mitzi was a friend of mine, too.” He paused. It seemed to me he was debating what to say next. Then he spoke again. “The creative writing class is a three month course. We cover whatever genres the students wish to write. A little over a month ago, we covered poisons for the mystery writers. I can’t help but think that maybe something I said had something to do with Mitzi’s death. More than ever, I’d like to help catch her murderer.”I met his sorrow-filled gaze and made the decision that it would be nice to have someone to discuss things with. Since this is all new to me, Brandon would probably have a better insight on how to go about finding a killer. He was a writer after all.
“Ok, I guess the first thing we need to know is who the mystery writers are in your class. And do you think we should tell the police what you just told me?” I leaned forward.
Brandon sighed and seemed to relax. “I’m not sure who the mystery writers are.”
“How can you not know?”
He leaned and met me halfway across the table. It was then I realized just how small the café’s tables were. I watched his mouth as he said, “When the course began I asked the class collectively who wrote what.” I must have frowned because he continued. “You know I said something like, ‘do we have any children’s authors?’ And so on. As each group raised their hands I wrote ‘yes’ beside that genre on my paper.”
“I see. So you created assignments for those genres and then had the class write collectively for each?” The words came out in a whisper. I ignored the breathiness of my answer, telling myself it was the quiet tone and not the man across the table.
He nodded.
How were we going to find out who the mystery writers were in his class?
Brandon smiled. “Looks like you have to attend my class again.”
“Why?” Excitement soared into my chest. Did he really want me there? Stop it Claire. This is about Mitzi not you. Besides, I had planned on going anyway but why did he feel I had to attend?
In whispered tones he answered. “Because Monday I’m going to ask everyone what they write again, and you can write down their answers.”
I scooted back in my seat. The distance helped me deny him this task. “Sorry Professor, but that’s not happening.”
A startled look crossed his face. He reacted as if I’d just slapped him, and I couldn’t help but smile. “Look, just have everyone write down on a piece of paper what they write. We’ll still get our answer.”
“So, while I’m pumping my students for answers what will you be doing?”
“I’ll be there but as a student. I’m not sure I want everyone to know why I’m really attending this class. If we don’t come across any suspects, we’ll need to turn the list over to the detective. He’ll want to know about the contest.”
“That makes sense. I’ll take care of getting a record of my students to him and telling him about the final exam, not contest. What’s your next step?” He asked.
“Sunday morning I’m going to go to her church.”
A grin broadened on his face. “You seriously expect to find the killer attending her church?”
When he said it like that, it did sound a little ridiculous. But it was possible. “I don’t know but it is one of the few places Mitzi socialized.”
The smile slipped from his lips and eyes. “I suppose so.”
Once more, I wondered how well he knew Mitzi. Had they dated? Or were they just friends like he said? If there had been romantic sparks, why hadn’t Mitzi told me about them?
Later that evening, I finished grilling my cheese sandwich and carried it to the table. At the same time, the microwave dinged announcing the bowl of tomato soup was done. I placed both on a large dining tray and headed to the living room. My favorite game show had just come on.
While the contestants introduced themselves I thought about Brandon Harvest. I hate to admit it, but it disturbs me that Mitzi and Brandon might have been closer than just friends.
Just before leaving the college, he’d offered me a class list of names, which I snatched up and tucked into my purse. Now what was I going to do with it? I couldn’t just call them all up and ask if they’d killed my best friend. That would just be tacky.
Warm buttery cheese teased my taste buds. On the television, a woman wearing a bright green top and the nametag that read “Florence” had just spun the wheel and landed on the three hundred dollar marker.
The category was “Thing,” and there were three words to fill in. I sipped at the hot soup as Florence asked for an M and got one. Then she did something I hate, she asked to buy a vowel. The crazy woman chose a U, which wasn’t in the puzzle.
It was the next contestant’s turn. He was a middle-aged man with a bald spot in the middle of his scalp. It reflected the light each time he bent over to spin the wheel. The thought he should do something about that crossed my mind as he spun the wheel and landed on the five hundred marker. He chose an S and got three of them. Then he asked for a vowel. Again I groaned.
This time the request was for an A, which he didn’t get. The game continued. Slowly I made out the words Single Stem Rose. The player who got it had a total of three hundred dollars. He could have continued guessing at the consonants and gotten more money but he was too anxious.
“Dumber than mud,” I grumbled, picking up the dinner tray and heading back to the kitchen during the commercial. Normally I would pick up the phone and call Mitzi but not tonight, not ever again. My gaze moved to the phone on the wall.
There were a number of women friends I could call. Gloria Fielding’s name came to mind, but I felt a twang of guilt. Mitzi was the one I shared these silly calls with. To call someone else was like saying Mitzi no longer mattered. It was betraying our friendship. I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.
I hurried back to the living room and forced myself to become absorbed in the game show but Mitzi stayed on my mind.
TITLE
Lethal Lasagna
Chapter 5
When my phone rang, the face of the alarm clock proclaimed the time to be eight AM.
“Hello?” I fairly growled into the phone. I wanted to scream. Didn’t whoever was on the other end of the line know that it was Saturday morning? My day to sleep in?
“Mrs. Parker?”
The voice sounded familiar. I scooted up against the headboard of my bed. “Yes?”
“You’re late, Dear.”
Late? What was I late for? The woman was crazy.
“Mrs. Parker? Are you there?”
I really didn’t want to answer her. The desire to sleep overwhelmed me so much I slid back under the sheets and comforter. With them over my head, I answered. “Yes, I’m just trying to figure out what I’m late for.”
“Dear I don’t think you’re awake.”
“Well, then if this is a dream, I’m going to hang up.” I pulled the phone away.
Her voice screamed through the phone lines. “No! We need you here.”
“Where is here?” I grumbled, putting the phone back up to my ear.
A heavy sigh sounded. “Mrs. Parker, this is Mrs. Harvey from church. You volunteered to help out at the annual yard sale.”
“Oh, no!” I threw the covers off and fairly jumped out of bed. “I am so sorry. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
After a quick shower and an apology to Sprocket in which I promised to make our walk longer this evening, I hurried off to the church.
“What took you so long to get here?” My friend, Gloria Fielding, asked as I rushed to her side.
“I forgot. Well, I didn’t forget. I just didn’t remember it was this weekend.” I reminded myself of that guy on the old sitcom that couldn’t remember anything, well, not anything. He remembered some things but they didn’t really make sense. What was his name? Hummm...The show was Green Acres.
Gloria handed me a roll of masking tape and a black marker. “Mrs. Harvey is really upset.”
“Yeah, she called me.” Mr. Haney? No, he was the guy who charged Oliver for everything.
“She didn’t!” Gloria gasped. “I’m so sorry. I tried to stall her.”
Gloria is a sweet lady who loves everyone. She has olive colored eyes, red hair and a crooked smile. I’d have to say she is the closest friend I had next to Mitzi. This thought startled me. With Mitzi gone, I guess that made Gloria my new best friend. Tears filled my eyes.
“What’s wrong, honey? Did Mrs. Harvey hurt your feelings?”
“No.”
Gloria stared me in the eyes and whispered dramatically. “Are you sure? Cause if she did, I’ll hold her and you can punch.”
That one always made me laugh. “Thanks, I’m fine. Just a little weepy this week.”
“I’m glad you made it, Mrs. Parker. And in such a good mood, too.” Mrs. Harvey passed on by. Her gray hair stuck out in the back. I almost giggled. Amazed that my emotions were on a rollercoaster ride this morning, I shook my head. What was wrong with me?
“Ignore her, Claire. I think her skirts have been starched too much,” Gloria whispered.
I giggled. “That’s not nice, Gloria.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Gloria went back to marking dishes but a happy twinkle filled her eyes.
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