Love Can Be Murder Box Set

by Bond, Stephanie

  Roxann's eyebrows skyrocketed. "What?"

  "He's so good to me—I've never had a man take his hat off for me, bring me flowers, a ham." She sniffled. "Mike makes me laugh, and he makes me feel good about myself."

  At first the idea of Angora the debutante being the wife of a plump Midwestern farmer was comical, but after Roxann tried it on for size, the image seemed to...no, actually it still seemed far-fetched.

  "Angora, you have to do whatever will make you happy. But I'd hate to see you run from Trenton and your parents just so you won't have to face them."

  "Oh, no, I'm going to face them. I'm going to tell them the truth, then break it off with Trenton."

  "We could take care of this while we're here, but we both have to agree."

  "I...think we should," Angora said. "Don't you?"

  Roxann nodded. "Yes, I do." Even though she could imagine the disappointment on her father's face, she could also imagine the relief of a clear conscience. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

  "No, but I'll live. Do you think that Mike will still be interested in me after he finds out?"

  "I suspect so." She smiled and started the engine, then turned in the direction of campus. Her stomach pitched and her neck muscles tightened. "This is going to change everything, you know."

  "I know."

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ROXANN CLUNG TO THE BACK of an aged wing chair in her father's living room. Her knees were practically knocking and her mouth couldn't seem to produce enough moisture to say what she had to say.

  "Go on," her father urged from his La-Z-Boy, unreclined for the serious discussion they'd been having. "It can't be that bad, Roxann."

  She inhaled deeply. "Dad, when Angora and I were eighteen, we made a deal. I took the ACT test, and the Notre Dame entrance exam for her." She swallowed hard. "And while we were there, I took tests for her whenever she was afraid she wouldn't pass."

  He closed his eyes briefly, and his grizzled mouth pulled down. "In return for what?"

  "She paid me enough to cover most of my tuition."

  "You didn't get a scholarship?"

  "No, my grades in high school weren't good enough."

  He shook his head, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

  "But you made straight As in college—you were a valedictorian."

  She walked around and sat down in the chair. "I studied hard because I was trying to prove something to myself, maybe trying to punish myself for what I was doing."

  Her father's hand shook while her heart broke. "How did you do it? Don't the instructors even know who's in their class?"

  So far, the conversation was meeting her worst expectations. Roxann sighed. "Everyone was always telling me and Angora how much we looked alike. I...wore a blond wig on the days I took her exams." She leaned forward. "Dad, I felt awful the entire time I was doing it, and ever since. I wanted to go to law school when I graduated, but I felt too guilty—like the degree I'd earned was the fruit of a poisonous tree."

  "Well, it was." He got up and walked over to stand in front of the old cabinet-model TV, looking out into the yard that, she suspected, he'd tidied for her homecoming. The sun highlighted his sparse hair and the stoop of his shoulders. Then, to her dismay, she realized his shoulders were shaking. Her father hadn't cried at her mother's funeral, but she'd managed to make him cry on a sunny Wednesday in late October.

  Swallowing her emotion she went to stand behind him and touched his shoulders. "Dad, I did a dishonest, horrible thing, and I'm so, so sorry that I let you down."

  "No," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm the one who let you down, Roxann. I was a hateful, distant father who saw the woman I loved and lost every time I looked at you. I expected you to live your life the way I had it planned, and when you didn't, I thought it was out of spite."

  She turned him around and looked into the face of remorse and regret. "Dad, it wasn't out of spite. It was out of shame. I couldn't face you, I couldn't face the world after I graduated. I hated myself for what I'd done."

  His chin wobbled. "I should've been there for you."

  She hugged him close. "We're here for each other now."

  He pulled back, his face creased with worry. "Roxann, I have to ask—does the cheating have anything to do with all those murders?"

  "No." Then she managed a rueful smile. "Except for the fact that I mistook a message that someone left on my computer as a threat, that they somehow knew what I'd done. My guilt surfaced and I panicked. That's why I was on the run, even before I knew Frank Cape was after me."

  "You mean this Cape fellow didn't leave the message?"

  "He said he didn't, although lying would have been one of his better character traits. Or it's possible that my ex-roommate left it."

  "The girl who died?"

  "Right. Maybe she thought it was amusing, I don't know."

  "What did the message say?"

  "It said, 'I've got your number, you fake.' "

  He scratched his temple and scoffed. "I think that's a line from a book."

  "Really?"

  He walked around the room, poking into different piles of books. "Where did I read that line? Somewhere...oh, this is the book." He held up a hardcover with a torn jacket. Mac Tomlin, Gumshoe. He flipped through the pages, scanning for several seconds. "Here's the scene, page one twenty-four. The suspect tells Tomlin that he'll never prove that he killed his wife. Tomlin says, 'I've got your number, you fake.' "

  She was inclined to pass it off as a coincidence, but what had Capistrano said—there are very few coincidences in this world? Darlin'. Once she got past the irritation of remembering something he'd said, she thought that quoting a line from a book was just the sort of thing that Richard Funderburk might have done, to be clever. And Cape was a PI—maybe Mac Tomlin was an idol of his. Assuming the man could read.

  "I'll probably never know who left that message," she said.

  Her father returned the book to a shelf, then sat down in his recliner. "I'm glad you told me about the deception, Roxann, but it has to be put right."

  She nodded. "Angora and I talked to the dean of admissions and several regents before we left South Bend about our punishment. Since she didn't meet the entrance qualifications, Angora's diploma was rescinded. I was stripped of honors."

  "But they're not pressing charges of fraud?"

  "No. They said we'd been through enough at the hands of university personnel. I think they were relieved we weren't going to sue them."

  "So you get to keep your degree?"

  "Yes."

  He exhaled. "Was Angora devastated? Poor girl, shackled with that piranha of a mother. Never had a chance."

  "Actually, I think she was relieved. Angora has her faults, but deep down she's an honest person."

  "Except Dixie will throw this up to her for the rest of her life."

  Roxann smiled. "I have a feeling Angora is going back to South Bend to live, and that her visits to and from her mother will be few and far between."

  "Oh?"

  "She met a guy—her attorney. A soybean farmer. He told Dixie to shut her pie hole."

  Her father grinned. "I like the sound of that boy." He pressed his thin lips together, his eyes still troubled. "What are you going to do now, sweetheart?"

  She sat back in her chair and looked around the room. "I was hoping you'd let me camp out here for a while. I could cook and clean in return for my room and board. And I might need your help studying."

  "Studying?"

  "For the LSAT."

  His eyes sparkled. "You're going to law school?"

  "If I can pass the entrance exam."

  He waved his hand. "Just a formality." He stood up, his body animated. "How about some coffee? No—sit still, I'll make it."

  Roxann sat back and, for the first time in years, truly relaxed. She closed her eyes and, starting with the top of her head, allowed every muscle in her body to loosen and expand. The last time she'd felt so light and carefree was the morning o
f the day she walked home and her mother wasn't waiting for her on the porch. It was the last day, she realized, that she'd felt safe and loved. But it wasn't too late to make amends with her father, and she did have people in the world who cared about her—Helen at the diner, Mr. Nealy next door, Angora, and lots of folks in the Rescue program, even if they didn't remember her name, or hadn't known it to begin with.

  "What happened to that Capistrano fellow?" her dad called from the kitchen.

  At the sound of the man's name, her entire body contracted involuntarily. "He went back to Biloxi."

  "Are you still seeing him?"

  She sighed. "Dad, I was never seeing him."

  "Are you going to be seeing him?"

  She opened her mouth to say no, then stopped. Why was it so hard to admit that she'd fallen for Joe Capistrano? Because of the way he made her question her life choices, and her motives? Carl Seger had spouted platitudes about social consciousness while exploiting hordes of female students. But Capistrano was out on the streets every day catching bad guys so that people could sleep a little easier at night. He had made her see that she wanted to help improve domestic and custodial laws instead of evade them.

  So maybe he wasn't offering her forever. Maybe they could have now, and just...be.

  I hope you get past whatever is keeping you from living...if you do, you've got my number.

  "Roxann?" her father said from the doorway. "I asked if you're going to be seeing the young man?"

  She sat up and reached for her purse. "Dad...do you mind if I make a long-distance call?"

  "Be my guest."

  The card Capistrano had given her was a little worse for time spent in the bottom of her purse, but the number for his cell phone was readable. She dialed the number, heart pounding. When it rang once, she hung up. After a quick pep talk, she dialed again. It rang, and she hung up again. Cursing her cowardice, she dialed the number again. It rang once, twice, three times before he picked up.

  "I thought I'd wait to see if you were going to hang up again," he said, sounding amused.

  She frowned—a pox on caller ID. "It could have been my father calling. Besides, I might just hang up now."

  "Oh, don't do that. I've missed you."

  She swallowed. "I've missed you, too."

  "See, that didn't hurt, did it?"

  "I'm coming to see you."

  "If you weren't, I was coming to get you."

  "Is this going to work, Capistrano?"

  "I didn't get scalded, pepper-sprayed, and tire-ironed for it not to."

  She smiled into the phone and relaxed.

  Epilogue

  ROXANN CLIMBED into the passenger seat of the Dooley with an armful of mail.

  "Popular lady," Capistrano said.

  "I haven't picked up my mail in ages."

  "Does this mean I have to let you go outside every weekend you visit?"

  She shook her head at his foolishness, then flipped through the pile, discarding junk mail and sorting bills. A letter from Richard with a Birmingham postmark evoked a rueful noise from her throat.

  "What's that?"

  "A letter from an old boyfriend."

  He made a hurt face. "What if he wants you back?"

  "I'm not available," she sang, then opened the letter. A fifty-dollar bill floated out.

  Dear Roxann,

  I hope this note finds you well. I thought you'd like to know that I'm in AA and have been sober for almost five months. One of the steps to recovery requires us to seek forgiveness from people we've wronged and try to repair the damage we've done. I probably owe you my life for orchestrating that intervention, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. And I remembered that I owe you fifty bucks.

  Fondly,

  Richard

  "Is your old flame buying us dinner?" he asked.

  "Nope. You're buying dinner, he's buying a study guide that I need."

  She pulled out another envelope, this one forwarded to her through the Rescue program. "Another boyfriend?"

  "No, but your petty jealousy is turning me on." The letter was from Melissa Cape Morgan.

  Dear Roxann,

  Funny that I don't even know your last name, yet I owe you so much. Renita and I have never been happier—you are in our prayers every night. Enclosed is a picture that Renita drew for her "lady hero." Thank you.

  xoxoxoxo

  Melissa and Renita

  Renita had drawn a crayon version of their "rescue" to the airport. She'd portrayed Roxann wearing a long red cape and tall red boots. Roxann smiled, and her heart expanded. Maybe she had done some good all these years. She would call Tom Atlas tomorrow to see what she could do for the Rescue program on a part-time basis.

  The next card was a heartfelt message from Nell Oney's sister, thanking Roxann for attending the memorial service. So sad—Nell had suffered tremendously in the end. Roxann swallowed the lump in her throat and hoped Nell was in a better place.

  Finally she pulled out a thick, square envelope and grinned. "It's from Angora." She ripped it open and pictures fell into her lap.

  Dear Roxann,

  Thought I'd let you see what life on the farm is like. I really love it here, especially the animals. And of course, Mike is wonderful. We were married last Wednesday night at the justice of the peace. I was thinking about you during the ceremony. Mike and I are expecting a baby in the summer—we're both thrilled. Mother is less thrilled, but resigned.

  Much love, Angora

  P.S. Mike also runs a crop-dusting business on the side, so he's teaching me to fly a plane.

  The pictures showed a round-cheeked Angora, nearly unrecognizable because her hair was now a light brown—her natural color? She wore sensible clothes and shoes, and she was holding a baby goat. Another picture was of her in the kitchen, elbow-deep in flour and smiling into the camera. The third picture was a snapshot of her and Mike at the justice of the peace. Angora wore a knee-length white dress and a white hat, and held a bouquet of dried wildflowers, beaming. Mike wore a suit and bow tie, and looked as if he'd just won the lottery. The last photo showed Angora sitting in the cockpit of a crop-dusting plane, waving.

  "What's so funny?" Capistrano asked.

  "Angora is amazing. Who would have dreamed that she'd enjoy living on a farm?"

  He laughed. "I'll bet it has more to do with the farmer than the farm."

  "They're expecting a baby."

  "Wow, that didn't take long."

  "Angora wanted to have kids right away. She said our eggs are getting old."

  He pursed his mouth. "Hm. Might have to do something about that 'being a mother and having a daughter' thing on that list you made."

  "If that's a proposal," she said dryly, "think of a better delivery."

  He pulled in front of the duplex and parked at the curb. "You know I love you," he said. "I'm helping you move, for Christ's sake."

  She jumped down from the truck. "Nope, you'll have to do better than that."

  He caught up with her and grabbed her around the waist. He kissed her thoroughly, then lifted his head. "Okay, how about, 'Let's get married and have a bunch of kids'?"

  She grinned. "Is that a hypothetical question?"

  He scratched his head as if he just realized what he'd done. "Er, no. No it is not."

  She shrugged. "Okay." Then she turned and walked toward the back entrance.

  "Okay?" he asked, on her heels. "That's all you have to say?"

  "Okay, Detective."

  "That's better," he said, lowering another kiss on her mouth. At the sound of a throat being cleared, they pulled apart.

  Mr. Nealy stood on his front porch, broom at the ready. "Nice day," he said, but his mouth was pulled down in a disapproving frown.

  "Hi, Mr. Nealy—you remember Joe Capistrano?"

  "Yes," he chirped. "Hello, young man."

  "Hello, sir." He leaned close to her ear. "He hates me."

  "Shut up," she whispered. "Mr. Nealy, I have a table that I'd like to g
ive to you—can I bring it over?"

  "Sure," he said, a bit more cheerfully.

  Inside her kitchen, boxes were stacked on the floor, packed with the few clothes, dishes, and other belongings she owned. She walked over to a wooden telephone stand with claw-and-ball feet. "I found it in an antique shop," she said. "I think Mr. Nealy will like it."

  "Want me to carry it over?"

  "No, I got it."

  Her neighbor was holding open the back door of his duplex when she went out. She held up the table. "What do you think?"

  He finally smiled. "I'm sure I can find some use for it in here. Thank you, Roxann."

  She stepped inside, immediately assailed with the smell of cedar and mothballs and loneliness. His belongings were meager, but neat.

  "Just set it down over there by the bookcase."

  She did and complimented his book collection. "My dad is a bit of a collector, too," she said, then stopped when a familiar spine caught her eye.

  Anger sparked in her stomach. She slid out a copy of Mac Tomlin, Gumshoe and gave Mr. Nealy a pointed look. She turned to page 124 and read, " 'I've got your number, you fake.' " Then she closed the book with a thud and looked up. "Sound familiar, Mr. Nealy?"

  "N-no," he stammered, red-faced.

  She planted her hands on her hips. "You broke into my place and left that message?"

  He held up his hands. "I didn't break in—I used the key you gave me for emergencies. I did not break in."

  "You ransacked my stuff!"

  "I only moved things around a little, and I was careful not to break anything."

  "I was frightened to death!"

  He looked long-faced and apologetic. "I just wanted to scare you a teensy bit, just so you might come over and..."

  "Ask you for help?"

  "Well, yes."

  She shook her head. "I don't believe this."

  "Please don't tell the police," he begged. "I was just so lonely, Roxann."