Wicked Women Whodunit

by Davidson, MaryJanice

  “So Dana beaned her with a candlestick and threw her into the ocean?” Caro hoped she didn’t look as horrified as she felt. She wanted Anna to keep talking.

  “You know how sisters are,” Caro continued dully.

  “Sisters?”

  “As far back as I can remember, they competed for everything ... fought to win everything. Toys. And when they were older, boys. And I guess Dana wasn’t going to let Tina win this time.”

  “You mean Dana had a wicked sister?” Turner looked flabbergasted. “Or, wait a minute, Dana was the wicked sister? Christ, how complicated is this going to get?”

  “Turner, I don’t think you’ve ...” Put it all together, Caro was going to add, but then, she had the benefit of the photo. Anna, standing with her sister, Dana. And someone who looked a lot like Dana.

  “But that means ... when I slept with Dana, her sister made up her mind to sleep with me, too?” Turner looked horrified. “I wouldn’t have hurt Dana. But she must have thought—”

  “And you tried to protect the sister who was still alive, right, Anna?” Corinne prompted.

  “I saw it happen ... I’d come down to the dining room to see if they wanted to go into town for supper. I was there to hear them fighting, rounded the corner in time to see what happened, but I wasn’t in time to stop it. I’ve—I’ve never been able to stop them.”

  “Tina was found naked,” Caro said softly, “because she was going to try to seduce Turner wasn’t she? And that did it. Dana had had enough.”

  Anna nodded. “So I told Dana to lock herself in her room and not come out, and I—”

  “Made yourself useful, covering up the crime.”

  “I didn’t know she’d confessed,” Anna said bitterly. “I thought if I could prevent any of you from finding the body—”

  “And not noticing the way Tina looked exactly like Dana,” Caro added dryly.

  “—that I could get Dana away before anything—anything happened. But then Turner came snooping around, and none of you would stay in your rooms. And one of you turned out to be a cop, for goodness sake.”

  “Ex-cop,” Grant and Corinne said in unison.

  Anna raised her head and glared at Turner. “This is all your fault.”

  “Uh ...” Caro held up a finger. “Actually, I think it might be all Dana’s fault.”

  “Dana just wanted something—someone nice for herself, is that such a crime? She doesn’t even think it’s a crime, and if you knew how Tina taunted her ... tormented her ... all their lives ... it’s not really a crime, right? Wanting to be able to hang on to something nice, for once? Wanting something your sister can’t have?”

  “No, of course not,” Corinne said, “but murder is.”

  “All this,” Caro said, “for a crush? Because Tina pulled one over on Dana, and Dana wanted to get even? That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “No,” Anna said. “All this because one of them had to be the winner. All the time.”

  Fourteen

  “I still don’t believe it,” Turner said, shaking his head. “Those poor girls.”

  “And poor Anna,” Caro added. “One sister’s dead, and the other’s headed for prison. I know it wasn’t too cool that she, you know, practically killed you, but I can’t help but feel sorry for her.”

  He nodded. “No wonder Dana wouldn’t tell us who she killed. How could she confess to killing her own sister? And over something so dumb? I’m serious, Caro, I barely knew the girl. Girls.” He shivered. “And here I slept with the killer ... and now her sister’s dead. God ...”

  “More of their sick games,” Caro commented. “Like Anna said, in the end, it wasn’t about you, or even love. It was about winning. You know what’s the worst? That picture I saw, the one Anna kept in the kitchen. Of the three of them? None of them are smiling. They’re someplace warm, on sand that looks like sugar, they’re wearing tropical flowers around their necks ... and none of them are smiling.”

  “Those poor girls,” Turner said again.

  There was a short silence, and then Caro, the night catching up with her, yawned. “Listen, we’ve got some time before ... I mean, we’re done talking to the cops and stuff ...”

  Turner looked at the bed, then looked at her. “Let’s just lie down together, all right?”

  “Very much extremely all right.”

  She crawled into the bed, noticing the sun was starting to come up over the horizon. Turner climbed in beside her, and they curled up like spoons in a drawer, and slept.

  “All checked out, then?” Rich asked.

  “We’re ready to rock,” Corinne said. The group had, by necessity, been forced to become close in an obscenely short amount of time, and now they found separating difficult. “Listen, you guys, if you’re ever in Minneapolis ...”

  “I live there,” Caro said, smiling.

  “... or San Diego,” Lynn added.

  “... or Boston,” Todd said.

  “Well, I’m not telling any of you weirdos where I live,” Jana huffed, snatching her bag away from Rich.

  “But you live with me, dear,” Lynn began.

  “This was, like, the lamest vacation ever.” She glared at the group. “The absolute worst.” She tossed her curls out of her face and stomped off.

  “I’ll miss that bitch,” Todd sighed.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Grant commented.

  “All I can say is, I hope to God I can score some smokes on the way to the airport.” He bent and kissed Caro on the cheek. “It’s been real, blondie. And what that means, I have no idea.” He hefted his bag and waved at the others. “Hope to see you all again. Under less interesting circumstances.”

  “Heck, I don’t mind so much. It made me lonesome for the force,” Corinne said. “I gotta admit, it was one for the books.”

  “Not much of a honeymoon for you two, though,” Turner said.

  “Oh, we’ll get it right next time,” Corinne said airily. She slung her duffel bag over one shoulder and sketched a salute. “Later, gators.”

  “Good-bye,” Grant said, shaking hands all around, then followed his wife out the front door. “You know, darling, there’s always the Mile High Club ...”

  “Well, ’bye,” Lynn said, and hurried after them.

  “You know, I don’t think she said twenty words all weekend,” Turner commented, watching her go.

  “Yeah, but she’s got a great story to tell when she gets home. And I’ve got a great story to write. Although,” she added as Rich looked vaguely alarmed, “I will change the names to protect the innocent.”

  “Bad enough I’m short a cook,” he grumbled. “That kind of publicity I do not need.”

  “You kidding?” Turner asked. “People will swarm to this place just to see where the candlestick got dropped ... where poor Tina went over the rail. You could double your prices and they’d still come. People are weird.”

  “Ugh,” Caro said. “The whole thing was a waste, if you ask me. Tina’s dead ... and for what? Dana’s in jail, thinking she’s the winner ... for what? Over a guy they hardly knew, but decided to fight over. A guy who was a doll in their tug-of-war.”

  “Beats me,” Turner said, looking honestly puzzled. “There’s lots of guys out there.”

  Caro took another look at his tousled dark hair, his vivid green eyes, the long, tanned legs. Poor bastard. No clue how finger-lickin’ good he really was.

  “I hope we’ll see you again, Caro,” Rich said, shaking her hand.

  “Next weekend?” Turner asked hopefully.

  “Jeez, I really couldn’t afford ...”

  “Oh, you’ll stay as a guest of management, of course,” Rich said. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Well,” Caro said, stealing another peek at Turner, “maybe I will.”

  Epilogue

  She arched her back to meet his thrusts and clutched his shoulders to bring him closer. He shuddered over her and bit her lightly on the ear, and her orgasm burst through her like a shoot
ing star. Moments later he stiffened, went deeper than he had before, and then he collapsed over her.

  “Oh, thank God,” Turner groaned.

  “Yeah, finally,” Caro sighed.

  “I’m glad you came. Uh, to visit again.”

  She giggled. “Me, too.” He kissed her again and rolled away, and she sat up. “Although, I have to say, it’s been extremely weird to be here and not worry about, you know, dead bodies.”

  He laughed and patted her leg. “It’s not usually like that. Last month was the exception, big-time.”

  She snorted. “Prove it.”

  “I plan to.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Let’s see ... I’ve been here for an hour. How do you want to fill the rest of the weekend?”

  “I’ll need another ten minutes ...”

  “Not that. Although it’s tempting. But don’t you have work to do?”

  “Don’t you?”

  She stared at him. “Oh, come on. You don’t mean Rich was serious.”

  “You kidding? I bugged him about it constantly until you came back.”

  “You guys don’t need a live-in nurse on the grounds.”

  “After what happened last time?” He rubbed the back of his head.

  “You guys are serious?”

  “Caro, get it through your head: we want you to stay here. I want you to stay here.”

  She was flattered, thrilled, and scared. All at the same time. Kind of like last month. “But we barely know each other.”

  “Look, you’re right, it’s definitely crazy, okay? But so what? I’ll tell you what I do know; I thought about you constantly while you were gone. That month felt like a damn year.”

  “I missed you, too,” she admitted.

  “I want you to stay. Rich has a job for you. Give it a try,” he coaxed. “There’s worse things than hanging out on a gorgeous secluded island off the coast of Maine and trying to hurt each other, you know, sexually.”

  “I guess.” She grinned. “I guess we could give it a try. If I survived what happened last month, I could try anything.” She sobered. “But if I’m going to stay here with you, I have to know one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “What’s your full name? I can’t just go around calling you ‘Turner’ all the time.”

  He grimaced. “I’ll tell you, but you should know, only my mom and my sisters know it. You’ll have to take an oath of secrecy.”

  She held up her hand, palm out. “I swear.”

  “Seriously. You can’t tell anybody.”

  “I won’t tell anybody.”

  “It’s Fred.”

  “Fred?” She bit her tongue so she wouldn’t laugh. Fred! Oh, that was a riot. “Well, that’s ... it’s very ... classic. Yes, it’s a very old-fashioned, nice, classic name.”

  “I hate it,” he said gloomily. “A Fred does your taxes for you. A Fred wears a tie and drinks cheap scotch.”

  “A Fred is giving me a whole new life,” she said, stroking the tip of his ear with her finger.

  He brightened. “That’s true.”

  “So, it’s not so bad. Not, you know, murder bad.”

  “That’s true, too. You know, I’m sort of falling for you, here. You didn’t go into gales of humiliating laughter when I told you my name. My mom always said the one girl who didn’t laugh at my name was the girl for me.”

  “Your mom’s pretty bright, then. Fred.”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong, Freddy?”

  “No.”

  She glanced at her watch again. “So, is that ten minutes up yet?”

  He pounced on her. “Close enough.”

  “I’m with you on that one ... Fred.”

  Dear Reader:

  My editor asked me to do a Letter To My Readers, the slave driver, and I agreed to get right on it after I finished my other very important errand. It’s 4:00 p.m. and the pan of brownies has been polished off (no need to make supper!), so now I’m writing to you, my readers. Here it is: Dear Readers, thank you for buying my book. Please buy three more copies. Collect the set! Sincerely, MaryJanice.

  But seriously (I always say “but seriously,” which is fairly lame as my rampant immaturity usually prevents me from being serious, accepting compliments gracefully, sitting through a movie without talking, or resisting the urge to give my mother-in-law a Wet Willy), thanks for giving this book a try. It’s the first mystery I’ve ever done, and I can’t tell you how much fun I had with it. Unlimited laughing gas fun. Free trip to the amusement park fun. Every mystery I’ve ever read centered around the concept of “who killed this guy?”, and being contrary Mary, I thought, “What if they knew who did it, but didn’t know who was dead?” Thus, Ten Little Idiots was born.

  Meanwhile, if you liked Ten Little Idiots and want to check out some of the other stories I’ve churned out (churned = agonizing creative process), there’s Hello, Gorgeous! (Legally Blonde meets “The Bionic Woman”), Undead and Unappreciated (from my vampire series), and Really Unusual Bad Boys. Again, the purchase of multiple copies will be looked upon by me with great favor, and it’ll sure make my boat payments easier.

  TEN LITTLE IDIOTS

  So, curl up (with a brownie!) and enjoy. And thanks for taking a look.

  Later, gators,

  MaryJanice

  maryjanice@comcast.net

  SINGLE WHITE DEAD GUY

  Amy Garvey

  One

  When this weekend was over, Lanie Burke told herself, she was going to seriously investigate the idea of karma. Not the concept itself, but specifically whom she had offended in some former life. There was no denying anymore that someone, somewhere, was spitting mad at her, and she was paying for it now, with interest.

  Squinting through the snowflakes swirling furiously beyond the windshield, she blew out a frustrated breath and reached blindly for the volume dial on the rental car’s stereo. Louder would be good. Deafening would probably be better, especially if Dave Matthews drowned out the “told you so” voice in her head that was making it really clear this impromptu weekend trip had been a bad idea.

  The problem was, her life was beginning to seem like one unending bad idea, she thought as she tried to follow the narrow strip of country road in the rapidly fading light. It had been a bad idea to make the color scheme for Elan’s latest fashion section shocking pink. Sitting at her desk and staring out at the sooty gray bricks of the building across the alley last December, she’d imagined something quintessentially springy, pretty but cleverly hip, and instead the whole eight-page spread had looked like a Pepto Bismol-induced nightmare.

  It had been a bad idea to give her sister advice about her marriage. Discussing something as simple as the weather with Bell could sometimes be treacherous, but offering an opinion on her brother-in-law’s latest almost-midlife crisis had been a mistake of epic proportions. Especially since Bell was apparently now considering leaving him, at least temporarily, and moving in with Lanie.

  Picturing her sister—and her sister’s luggage, overweight cat, and armfuls of self-help books—crammed into her studio apartment on Second Avenue, Lanie shuddered. Small was a generous word for the place. Even “tiny” would be kind. Most days she was amazed that she managed to live there alone without tripping over something. Another adult-sized human would be asking for disaster, not to mention more stress than Lanie could handle at the moment.

  Which was the reason her friend Jess had offered the use of her husband’s cabin for the weekend. “Go away,” she’d said. “Just get in the car and drive, go up there and sleep and read and forget about everything for a few days. You deserve it.” Lanie hadn’t been sure she wanted to make the trip; after all, what was there to do upstate by herself but sit around and think about the big fat mess her life had become? But when Jess had added, “Or you could come over and look at the pictures from the wedding,” Lanie had sighed and asked when she could pick up the keys. She’d tripped over a stray purse and fallen into the buffet
table at Jess’s wedding two months ago, squashing three hundred dollars’ worth of shrimp canapés and mini lobster ravioli, and photographic evidence of it wasn’t exactly going to improve her state of mind.

  So she’d packed her comfiest pajamas, two good books, a bottle of Shiraz, and a box of Clairol #37— Champagne on Ice—with a positive attitude and only a medium-nauseating quantity of chocolate for backup. Maybe a weekend away was exactly what she needed. Her batteries were fizzling, so she’d recharge them. She was running on empty, so she’d refill her tank. Her mental cupboards were bare, so she’d restock them.

  And then she’d work on cutting all the annoying analogies out of her vocabulary instead of cursing the weatherman for not predicting a freak spring storm, she thought, maneuvering the unfamiliar car around a curve and frowning in dismay at the snow. It was nearly dark, she wasn’t sure how to get to the cabin, and the roads were becoming more slippery with every mile.

  It figured. Of course it did. This was her life lately, a dictionary-ready example of Murphy’s Law. The knowledge didn’t make driving through the snow any easier, though. Huddling deeper inside her coat, she turned off the county route and onto the main street of Churchville, skidding to a stop along the curb a moment later as the Ford fishtailed with a terrifying swish.

  “Not good,” she muttered, catching her breath and waiting for her heart to stop hammering in her chest. “Very bad, in fact.” A weekend away from her life was one thing, but not if it meant risking her life in the process. Shoving the gearshift into park, she scanned the quiet street and focused on the warm gold light spilling from the window of what looked like the local bar, just a block away. It was a picturesque little town, especially in the snow, like something out of a New England postcard. Another day, it would have been nice to sketch it.