A Genuine Fix

by J. C. Kenney

  “Can’t say that I blame him.” Mom knew all too well the heartache Georgie had caused me. Given the circumstances, I was glad she’d confided in me.

  Revenge was a strong motivator. Still, was the loss of a promotion enough of a reason to murder someone?

  “There’s something else.” Mom’s tone sent a shiver down my spine. It was way too reminiscent of the tone she’d taken when she told me about Dad’s cancer diagnosis. “A year or so after Matt was named chief, I saw Wendy for an emergency appointment. She had a broken arm and a black eye. She said she’d tripped in her backyard doing landscaping work.”

  “The classic battered spouse lie.” I wrapped my arms around myself. When I was in New York, I did volunteer work with coworkers at a women’s shelter. To this day, some of the stories I had heard made my blood run cold.

  “Yep.” Mom loaded the dishwasher. “I tried to get her to ask for help, but she said no. Wendy promised Tommy had never hurt her before. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t since, either.”

  “Any other incidents of violence you’re aware of?” I fetched my notebook and jotted down an abbreviated version of what Mom had told me.

  “No. But Tommy has a bit of a reputation as a hothead.”

  I rubbed my eyes, then wrote Tommy’s name on the page entitled “Suspects.” To the right, I made three columns. I labeled the column on the left “Motive.” I labeled the one in the center “Means,” and the one on the right “Opportunity.”

  Revenge was a classic motive for murder. I put a check mark under “Motive.” The man was a cop, so it was beyond doubt he had the means to do it. Another check mark went under “Means.”

  The only question that remained was opportunity. Tommy worked nights, but was he working the night of Georgie’s murder? Did it matter whether he was working or not? I didn’t know but was pretty sure of the answer. I put a check mark under “Opportunity.”

  After Mom left, I spent a few hours reading queries, the letters authors send to gauge my interest in potentially representing their books. I had a special e-mail address set up to receive queries, and since Thornwell’s book had come out, it filled up if I didn’t go through it at least twice a week.

  As a one-person business owner responsible for all aspects of the agency, including revenue generation, having so much interest from authors was a good challenge to have. I was able to pay my bills, but just barely, so even with a potential murder charge hanging over my head, I couldn’t afford to neglect my business.

  Of the three dozen queries I read, four interested me. I responded to those authors with my standard request for the first three chapters of the book and a synopsis, a two-page summary of the entire story. After hitting the send key on the last of the responses, I sat back and let out a long, tension-releasing breath. I loved my job, and spending the afternoon on it left me energized and ready to tackle my final activity of the day—attending a meeting of the volunteers to elect Angela Miller mayor of Rushing Creek.

  After the events of the previous year, I’d been hoping someone would run against Larry Cannon for mayor. I would have supported anyone—Luke, Diane from Creekside Chocolates, even the hedgehog that lived downstairs in the bookstore. Okay, maybe not the hedgehog, but I was convinced there were any number of folks in town who would be a strong alternative to Larry.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t think Larry was a capable mayor. It was more that I didn’t approve of some of his personal choices. I also didn’t want him to run unopposed. After all, I was still influenced by my years in New York. In the last mayoral race in which I voted, six candidates received at least one percent of the vote. To me, someone being elected to public office without opposition was an insult to those who fought and died for our freedom.

  Given that, I was overjoyed when Angela announced her candidacy. She had it all. A lifelong Rushing Creek resident, a business owner, and a parent, she could speak intelligently on any number of campaign issues. She was also outgoing without being fake. In short, she was the real deal, and I couldn’t wait to get started working for her.

  The excitement that was bubbling inside me as I walked into Angela’s basement recreation room didn’t last long. In fact, it lasted for all of about three seconds. That was the time it took for conversation to go from an excited buzz to nonexistent and for all heads to be turned in my direction.

  As I gave Angela a hug, someone made a comment just loud enough for me to hear. The words were an excruciating slap across the face.

  “I can’t believe a murderer would show her face in public like this.”

  As I froze in mid-hug, Angela drew me to her. “I’ll take care of it.”

  With her arm around me, she turned us to face the gathering. There must have been two dozen people in the room.

  She cleared her throat and waited until all eyes were on her. “Thank you all for coming. I also want to say a special thank you to my dear friend Allie Cobb for being here. It means the world to me that the person who caught Thornwell Winchester’s murderer supports me in this election. Allie put her life on the line to bring justice to our community. That kind of integrity is priceless, and I, for one, am not going to let silly rumors go unanswered when I know how much of a hero Allie is.

  “Her selfless actions last year inspired me to take this leap of faith and run for mayor of our beloved Rushing Creek. I can’t thank her, and all of you, for your faith in me. Let’s get to work.”

  A flurry of activity followed as people went from chatting to specific tasks. Pieces of paper were taped to the white walls every ten feet or so. On the papers, in black marker, were written committee names. The committees ranged from Phone Bank to Voter Registration to Public Relations. Under the Phone Bank sign, a group of four people huddled around a document that had names and phone numbers on it. After some discussion, they headed upstairs, with their cell phones out, to make calls to Rushing Creek residents.

  I tried to join the special events committee, then the fund-raising committee, but each time I was given the cold shoulder. Evidently, Angela’s faith in me hadn’t transferred to the rest of the volunteer force.

  With the message received, I wandered to the signage station and began assembling yard signs. The colors of the signs, blue and white, were the colors of Rushing Creek High School. The fact that Angela had decided to forgo the more common red, white, and blue political colors and use a color scheme that voters would immediately connect with—those of the local school system—made me smile. It was a subtle way to connect with the school system, which was a source of local pride. She always had every detail covered.

  A little while later, there was a tap on my shoulder.

  “Impressive stack you’ve got there.” Angela patted the pile of the assembled signs. “How many?”

  “Eighty-four.” My fingers were black from the grit on the wire sign frames. I wiped them on my jeans. “I’m not quite halfway through.”

  “That’s a great start. We’ll hand them out at the Labor Day Festival tomorrow.” She motioned toward the stairs. “I could use some help taking these to the car. Would you give me a hand?”

  When we had the signs loaded into Angela’s minivan, she took a seat on the back bumper and motioned for me to join her.

  “I’m so sorry about the way you’ve been treated tonight. I’m going to have a word with a number of people, letting them know in no uncertain terms my opinion of you.”

  “Which is?” Angela’s words were a balm to the aching wound in my heart. I wasn’t one for self-pity, but in a way, the reaction I’d received from the others made me feel isolated, like I didn’t exist, like I was a victim of the murder, too.

  “I’ve known you since you were a toddler. You’re a kind person. A good person. You’re not the type to hurt someone, much less take another life.”

  “Unless it’s self-defense.” My mind drifted back to the time I used my kickboxing
training to help me apprehend Thornwell’s murderer.

  “Very true. And I’m glad you weren’t afraid to do what it took back then.” She bumped her shoulder against mine. “Between you and me, I’d give almost anything to see video footage of the Kickboxing Crusader in action.”

  “I’m so glad there’s no footage of that. I bet I looked like David trying to take on Goliath.”

  We laughed. At five-one and a hundred and ten pounds, I didn’t make for an intimidating figure. All my life, I’d tried to make up for my lack in stature with smarts and quickness. That mind-set had served me well so far, but would it be enough to help me be up to the challenge before me?

  “I don’t know about that.” Angela got to her feet. “What I do know is you’re a fighter. And you’re going to need to be one until Georgie’s murder is solved.”

  “I know. Matt’s basically told me I’m on my own.”

  “Unfortunate, but understandable. There’s something else, though. Larry and I have our first debate in two weeks. He won’t want to face questions about an unsolved murder.”

  “Are you saying he’ll have me arrested if the killer hasn’t been caught by then?” Larry and I were hardly friends, but even he wouldn’t stoop to something so underhanded. Would he?

  “No. At least, I sure I hope not. What I am saying is don’t let yourself be put in that situation.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “Find the killer before the debate, Allie. You solved a murder once. You can do it again.”

  “Thanks.” I gave Angela a hug. Yes, I could do it again. I would do it again. I’d find Georgie’s killer and do it before the debate.

  It sure looked like my freedom depended on it.

  Chapter Six

  My life had been a roller coaster full of twists and turns the past three days. As I woke up Monday morning, it was with great hope that the day’s portion of the ride would be a smooth stretch that went gently uphill. The night before, when I got home from Angela’s house, I took a long hot bath using some bergamot oil to unwind. Then I curled up with a book, a bowl of popcorn, and Ursi by my side—in short, the most relaxing way to end the day.

  Despite my troubles, Labor Day promised to be amazing because Brent was coming to town. His job took him around the state of Indiana overseeing the installation of genealogy equipment in local libraries. I teased him, saying he was a twenty-first-century vagabond living in a short-term rental for a couple of months before moving to a new community, where the process started all over again. He loved his work, though, and I loved hearing about his travels around the state.

  A cold front had moved in overnight, bringing chilly temperatures and scattered showers. I wasn’t going to let the dismal forecast ruin my mood. On the contrary, the weather had provided a perfect excuse to break out my brand-new Cobb Literary Agency fleece jacket. After all, it couldn’t hurt to add some promotional efforts to a day of fun.

  I was sipping a post-breakfast cup of coffee when a rapid sequence of five knocks on the door had me out of my seat. Ursi scrambled from her perch by the front window to race me to the front door. My kitty had learned that the pattern of knocks meant Brent was here. She was no dummy. He always had a treat for her, so her warm greeting was mostly based on the snack she knew was forthcoming. Hey, whatever worked to get my cat to warm up to my boyfriend was all right by me.

  I opened the door and sucked in a little breath as my heart rate ticked up a notch. It had been two weeks since I’d seen Brent, and in that time, he’d started growing a beard. The stubble served as a rugged accent to his mid-length brown hair, which tended to fall in front of his round, steel-rimmed glasses. The brown, tweed sport coat and blue jeans completed the hipster librarian look.

  “Aren’t you dashing today.” I stepped aside and gestured for him to come in. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Simply happy to see you.” He leaned down and gave me a kiss on the lips that made my heart flutter, then offered me a bouquet of flowers he’d been hiding behind his back. “Pretty flowers for a pretty lady.”

  I took the colorful mixture of red, orange, and purple daisies and placed them in a vase on my kitchen table. Ursi jumped onto the tabletop and gave the flowers a sniff. After gently pawing at a few of the lower-hanging petals, she curled up next to the vase, licked a paw, and stared at Brent, ready for her treat.

  “I guess she likes them.” I scratched her between the ears. “That makes two of us. Ready for the awesomeness that is the Rushing Creek Labor Day Festival?”

  “Yeah, but…” He went to the living room and lowered his six-five frame onto the couch. “Before we go, I was hoping you’d tell me what happened at the park.”

  “There’s not much more to tell.” We’d spoken Friday night, and I’d assured him I was fine. He’d texted me the following two days, ostensibly to confirm our plans for today. I knew better. He’d been checking in on me.

  “That’s not what Sloane and Mrs. Miller said.” He smiled and spread his long arms along the couch cushions. “Given the fix you’re in, I thought I’d get into town early and do a little investigating of my own.”

  I didn’t want to ruin the day by getting into a fight with my boyfriend. I didn’t get to see him often enough, so being disagreeable would be a waste of time. Besides, I was curious to hear the details of his conversations.

  “How about you tell me what they said.” I slipped onto the couch next to him. “Then I’ll decide if you have a future in private investigation.”

  “Fair enough. When I got to town, I dropped Sammy off at Luke and Sloane’s house so he wouldn’t be cooped up here in the apartment. She told me about the conversation you guys had at the pub. After that, I stopped by the diner for a cup of coffee. Mrs. Miller was there. She told me about the jerks you had to deal with last night.” He took a deep breath. “And the deadline you’re up against.”

  When he was finished, I tried to swallow, but my throat had run dry. The picture he painted was one hundred percent accurate and one hundred percent nerve-racking at the same time. I had a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it, which was beyond frustrating. I’d been so looking forward to spending a fun-filled day with Brent, not thinking about Georgie’s murder.

  “What do you say we enjoy ourselves at the street fair while keeping our eyes and ears open? Later, we can discuss what we learned over something to eat, maybe at Big Al’s.”

  I had a brain blast at his mention of the restaurant. I could try to pump Al for information about Willie. I wasn’t happy with the thought of getting Al to spill the beans on his brother, but that was the cost of living life as the number-one suspect.

  “I like the way you think.” I kissed Brent and popped to my feet. “Let’s go have fun and play investigator while we’re at it.”

  Separated from the entrance to Green Hills State Park by the waterway that gave the town its name, Rushing Creek thrived on the tourist trade. Virtually every holiday that brought folks to the park was accompanied with some sort of street festival or celebration.

  While all the celebrations paled in comparison to the massive Fall Festival extravaganza, each had characteristics that made them unique and entertaining. Memorial Day featured a salute to our fallen veterans and a vintage car show. The Fourth of July had a parade, and the day concluded with spectacular fireworks.

  Labor Day was close to the end of summer, so Rushing Creek celebrated with a cookout. The community groups and local businesses offered something unique to eat or drink. A new catchphrase was developed for the event each year, but the locals preferred the unofficial slogan—“Eat your way through Rushing Creek.”

  Since it was still chilly and overcast when we stepped outside, we headed for Creekside Chocolates’ hot chocolate, the most magical drink on Earth, in my estimation.

  My friend Diane Stapleton was staffing a booth in front of the store. Samples of chocolate and other decadent morsel
s covered a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth. When she saw us, she stepped out from behind the booth.

  “Hey, sista.” She was wearing a T-shirt in a khaki shade that highlighted how richly brown her skin was. Her luminous black hair, which until a few months ago had been colored purple, was pulled back into a tight topknot. In short, even while working, she was gorgeous.

  “About time you came to see me. I’ve been worrying about you all weekend.” She gave me a hug. “Anything I can to do help?”

  I waved her concern away. “I’m fine. It’s nothing one of your hot chocolates won’t take care of.”

  We chatted for a few minutes while Brent tried a few samples. I abstained since I was holding out to get my chocolate in liquid form.

  When some people approached the booth, we moved toward the shop’s front door.

  Diane put her hand on my arm. “I’ve got my ears open. If I hear anything interesting, I’ll let you know. You’re not in this alone.”

  My eyes clouded over, and a lump formed in my throat. It took some effort, but I managed to swallow and blink the tears away. As Brent and I waited for our drink orders, it occurred to me that I’d spent so much of my time thinking about solving Georgie’s murder, I hadn’t thought of the effects of said murder.

  A man was dead. He wasn’t a good man. To be honest, I despised Georgie Alonso. That didn’t mean it was okay to have his life taken from him. What about his family? How were Lori and their daughter coping?

  Suddenly, it was sweltering in the shop. I slipped out of my fleece, but then had trouble breathing. I told Brent I needed some fresh air and bolted for the door.

  I was at the metalsmith’s shop, looking at some silver earrings with tiny books on the ends, when Brent joined me.

  “You okay?” He handed me my drink. “If you want, we can go back to your place.”

  “No.” I paid for the earrings and put them on. As I did so, I glanced at the sky. The clouds were parting. “I need to be out and about. I’m taking these earrings as a sign today’s going to be a good day.”