Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  I forced my eyes from my phone to AmyJo, still standing in the doorway.

  She frowned. “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. “Melinda was murdered this morning.” The words felt oily and thick. They weren’t my words. Wasn’t my mouth.

  AmyJo rushed forward and pulled me up from the couch. She wrapped me in a hug and I inhaled the calming scent of her coconut hair conditioner. My legs felt rubbery and I wasn’t sure they would support me, even with AmyJo’s help. She guided me to the sunroom where the others waited. As we walked in I must have looked like hell, because they all reacted, either by jumping up from their seats, or dropping their papers, or gasping.

  “Charlee’s agent was murdered. That’s why her assistant was calling.” AmyJo led me to an overstuffed chair and gently pushed me into it. Everyone was talking at once and coming toward me. I didn’t hear what they were saying.

  I raised my trembling hands and the room went silent. I glanced around but saw nothing. My eyes wouldn’t focus. “They think I did it.”

  More voices, more soft focus. My mind worked backward to my manuscript. Mercury poisoning in her car. The perfect crime. But not too perfect—my detective had figured it out in the end and arrested the murderer. But perfect in my manuscript. And it worked. All that research. It worked. I’d been worried some reader would ask why my fictional victim didn’t just crack a window or open the door to breathe fresh air. That’s why I had to use so much mercury and glue the heater on high. Not “I.” My bad guy.

  My made-up scenario had worked in real life. I squinched my eyes tight, ashamed and sickened that even for a moment I was proud of my work. My research.

  The voices became louder and I felt a hand on my arm. I opened my eyes to see Cordelia kneeling in front of me.

  “Charlee, take a deep breath. Stay with us, here.” Cordelia’s voice was calm and her breath smelled like cream. I stared at the pearls around her neck. Counted them. Fourteen, before they dipped inside the collar of her sweater set. “Charlee.” I felt her press the back of my head. “Head between your knees.”

  I took a deep breath. My vision cleared the rest of the way. I raised my head and saw the tableau of my friends in front of me—Cordelia kneeling, Kell and AmyJo standing behind her, Einstein in the chair next to me with Jenica perched on the arm.

  “Melinda was killed in her car this morning. Exactly the way I wrote in Mercury Rising. I finished all my revisions and gave it to her last week.” I searched each face for judgment, but only saw raised eyebrows of disbelief or frowns of confusion. In any other circumstance, I’d want to jot notes for future character studies. Clichéd reactions, but things become clichés because they’re true.

  Einstein checked his watch. “When did it happen, if you had breakfast with her this morning?”

  I slid my fingers slowly up my forehead, spiking my bangs. “I didn’t have breakfast with her. I lied. I was late because I spilled coffee on my shirt and had to go change before I picked up the balloons.”

  Jenica leaned toward me and nudged my long hair behind my shoulder. When she straightened, she pointed at a stain on my shirt that my hair had been covering.

  I looked down. “That’s … an old one.” When I raised my head, it seemed the atmosphere in the room had shifted. Just a bit, but I noticed. It felt like the judgment I had expected earlier.

  Softly, Kell asked, “Does this have anything to do with you saying you’re close to cracking the mystery of your royalty statements wide open?”

  I stared at him. He looked like the same sweet Kell from my critique group, but this man just accused me of … something. I searched the other faces staring back at me. Again, they looked like my writing group, but something in their expressions didn’t match the people I thought I knew. AmyJo turned away. I wanted to talk, but words seemed impossible.

  “Excuse me.” Kell’s housekeeper entered the room followed by two policemen. “These men need to speak with Charlee.”

  Kell waved them in.

  They stopped about halfway between us and the doorway. One of them said, “Charlemagne Russo? Can you please come with us?”

  Two

  For the eighty-seventh time, it seemed, I asked, “Am I under arrest?”

  “Ms. Russo, you’ve asked that three times now, and three times we’ve told you no. You are not under arrest.”

  “I’m still wondering if I should have an attorney.” I slid my hands under my thighs. Trembling hands looked guilty.

  “You’re not under arrest. You are certainly welcome to call an attorney, but that won’t get you out of here any faster.”

  I sat in a small but tasteful room in the Cherry Hills Precinct of the Denver Police Department. Clearly it was an interrogation room, but the curvy teak table and three comfortable chairs seemed like they could have been swapped with furniture from a Silicon Valley CEO’s office. The uniformed cops who’d escorted me here had delivered me into the hands of two plainclothes detectives who introduced themselves as “Ming-like-the-vase” and “Campbell-like-the-soup.” Ming was a short Asian man with slicked-back hair. Campbell looked like he’d be right at home on the Broncos’ defensive line. One Campbell easily equalled three Mings, but Ming seemed in charge. All that hair gel. I didn’t trust him.

  So far, they were playing Good Cop, Good Cop. I had coffee in an unadorned porcelain mug in front of me, as well as a bottle of water cold from the mini-refrigerator across the room. It sat next to the credenza that held the coffee service and a vase filled with a professional-level arrangement of yellow tulips and baby’s breath. No expense had been spared in decorating this precinct, and they apparently wanted me well-hydrated for their musings about my whereabouts and level of guilt. I didn’t drink either beverage, though, preferring to keep my hands on lockdown under my butt.

  The shock of the last couple of hours had worn off and I was drifting into anger-and-frustration territory, despite what I suspected were aromatherapy candles strategically placed around the room. I was almost certain I smelled freshly peeled oranges, which I knew was supposed to be a calming scent. It didn’t seem to be working.

  “You understand I’m a fiction writer, paid to make stuff up?”

  They nodded but continued asking questions, some more than once.

  “Ms. Russo, tell us again who had access to your manuscript,” Detective Ming said.

  I sighed. “The seven members of my critique group—”

  Campbell checked his notes by pointing with the tip of a pen, his meaty hand rendering it almost invisible. “AmyJo McFarland, Jenica Jahns, Sheelah Doyle, Kell Mooney, Cordelia Hollister-Fiske, Heinrich Gottlieb, and the one you call Einstein Eichhorn.”

  I nodded, pulling my hands out from under me and rubbing them to get rid of the prickly pins-and-needles sensation. I couldn’t remember Einstein’s real name, but they were detectives, they’d figure it out.

  “Who else?”

  “Melinda and her assistant.”

  “Not your brother?” Ming asked.

  “Lance is a cop. He’s not interested in fictional murder.”

  Detective Campbell looked at Ming. “I like Robert Crais and Jeffrey Deaver.”

  “I’m partial to the outdoorsy ones,” Ming said. “CJ Box, Nevada Barr, Craig Johnson.”

  “Point taken. No, my brother didn’t read my manuscript.” I tilted my head toward Ming. “You know my brother?”

  “Just by reputation—”

  “I knew your dad,” Campbell interrupted.

  Ming cleared his throat, then changed course before I could respond. “Queue Quaid had access to your manuscript?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Q was the one who told me about Melinda this morning.” I used my thumb to brush condensation from the water bottle, happy to see that the stress only made my tremor a little bit worse. Maybe they wouldn’t even notice. “My boyfriend, Ozzi Rabb
inowitz, also read it, plus my regular beta readers.” Ming opened his mouth but I answered the question I knew he was going to ask, again. “Like I told you before, they’re the nonwriters who comment on my early drafts. Ozzi’s sister, Bubbles. Suzanne Medina, my neighbor. And Dave and Veta Burr, friends of my parents from way back.” I glanced up to see Detective Ming staring at my hands, so I wrapped them around my water bottle. The condensation felt unpleasant, so I wiped both palms on my jeans. But that looked guilty, like I was sweating, so I wrapped both hands around the porcelain mug instead. Then I tried to sit very, very still.

  Ming twisted Campbell’s notebook so he could read it. “Bubbles is … Beulah Rabbinowitz Lukina?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Campbell-like-the-soup nodded too, making me feel like everything I said had to be verified. Which I guess it did, but it still made me fantasize about dumping a bowl of Cream of Mushroom on his head.

  “Is your manuscript online anywhere?”

  “No!”

  “What about the experts you talked to in your research? Who are they?” Ming used his palm to smooth his hair, even though there wasn’t a breath of air moving in the room to muss it. Was he as nervous as I was?

  “They’re not necessarily local. When I’m writing, I get as much information as I can from Google or the library, then I send out a call on Facebook. ‘Who knows a dog groomer, or a ballet teacher, or a car mechanic, or a DEA agent, or whatever, who’d be willing to talk to me?’ People respond and give me contact information for their sister or neighbor, or, in this case, their old high school chemistry teacher.”

  “We’ll need her contact information,” Ming said.

  I pulled up the photos on my phone and scrolled until I found the screenshot I took of her message. I showed it to Ming, who read it and then passed the phone to Campbell, who copied the info into his notebook and handed my phone back.

  “All I asked her was where someone could get a bunch of mercury and how long it would take for the vapor to kill an adult in an enclosed space.”

  “Did she ask why you wanted this information?”

  “I was introduced as a mystery writer. I assumed she knew it was for a book.” I collected my hair in a ponytail and fanned it against my neck. I thought about Ming’s nervous hair gesture and stopped abruptly. “Now, I don’t want to be rude or seem in any way unhelpful, but we’re just going over the same territory. Can I go home now so you can look for the person who killed Melinda Walter?”

  Ming smiled wanly. “Indulge me. Tell me again where you were last night until nine this morning.”

  I sighed loudly, like a teenager, and immediately wished I hadn’t. “Late dinner with boyfriend. Asleep. Party store. Critique group.”

  Both detectives wrote in their notebooks.

  When they finished I said, “I didn’t kill Melinda, but based on the fact that whoever did kill her used details that seem to match what I wrote in my manuscript, I’m wondering if I’m in any danger. Or if my friends are. It seems pretty likely that the murderer is someone I—we—know.”

  Detective Ming paused, then shook his head. “Our investigation is clearly in the preliminary stages, but the facts of this case don’t seem to rise to the level of a serial killer.”

  I glanced at Campbell in time to see the tail end of a look pass between the two men. But what was it? Concern? Impatience? Skepticism? Indifference? Were they annoyed by my perfectly reasonable worries?

  “Will there be any protection for any of us?” I pressed.

  Detective Campbell didn’t even try to hide his condescending smile. “Charlee—may I call you Charlee?—there’s no reason for you to worry. I know this is unfamiliar territory for you, but we’ve investigated many, many murders and you can trust me when I say, you and your friends are in no more danger than you were last week.”

  “We were in danger last week?” I felt my heartbeat quicken.

  He waved his hand, dismissing my words. “You know how when

  people watch the news about terrorist bombings and such? Many of them begin to feel like it happens all the time and it’s just a matter of time before they themselves will be targeted by a suicide bomber. But you know what? More Americans were shot and killed by toddlers in 2015 than were killed by Islamic terrorists. And you can check that with Snopes.” He smirked and settled back in his chair with an over-abundance of casualness. “There’s no need for you to worry about a serial killer on the loose. Ming and I are on the job.”

  If he’d patted me on the head and handed me a lollipop, I couldn’t have felt any more like a child who’d confessed her fear of a scary monster under her bed.

  Ming smoothed his non-mussed hair again. “Just one more question, Ms. Russo. Did you like Melinda Walter?”

  “Did I like her?” No, not at all. She was a stone-cold bitch. Nobody liked her. “Of course I liked her.”

  Three

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I left the detectives. I powered up my phone to call my brother. Lance would know what to do. I walked alone through the sunlit atrium of the police department and headed to one of the carved stone benches and sat, facing a faux jungle. Palm and ficus trees, ferns, oversized blooms, and a tangle of vines covered a two-story craggy cliff that rose above me. I’m no expert, but none of those plants seemed indigenous to Colorado. They sure looked real, but I knew that on the other side of the skylight, despite the cobalt blue sky that had finally made an appearance, was a cold March wind, not the tropics. Although with the way my world had been knocked upside down that morning, maybe the natural world was different, too.

  I was the only one in the lobby. Even without Essence of Orange it was remarkably calming, especially with my back to the offices, detectives, and all the unpleasant questions and insinuations. Was that a waterfall I heard? I guess this was the kind of police station the property taxes in Melinda’s neighborhood bought. I’d been to my brother’s precinct. A walk through their fetid lobby made you long for a Silkwood shower afterward.

  Before I dialed Lance, I got a text from Cordelia. It said, Please don’t mention that I read your manuscript.

  The ridiculousness made me read it again. And again. Still not understanding.

  I replied, Why not?

  She must have been staring at her phone waiting for me to respond because a new message immediately popped up. It wouldn’t be convenient.

  Convenient? I barked out a noise, then quickly covered my mouth with one hand. None of this was convenient. I typed, Sorry. Already did. Why wouldn’t it be—I tried to type convenient, but my phone autocorrected it to convincing. I retyped convenient. This time it stuck. I waited for Cordelia to respond but she didn’t. I considered calling her, but decided I needed to talk to my brother more.

  It went to voicemail. I listened to Lance’s outgoing message, then said, “Hey, I don’t know if you heard anything through the grapevine or not, but I need to talk to you. I may or may not be in trouble. Call me as soon as you get this, but I’m calling your dispatch, too.”

  I clicked off and tried the other number.

  “Denver Northfield Precinct.”

  I could barely hear the woman’s voice over the background noise. I spoke louder to compensate, self-conscious in the quiet atrium. “I’m looking for Lance Russo. Is he working today?”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “No. Maybe. No. I’m his sister and I need to talk to him.” I glanced around the lobby, expecting stares or shushes, but there was still no one around, just the distant sound of muffled voices and ringing phones. “Can you tell him to call me?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She hung up and I was alone once more in the jungle.

  I made sure my ringer was on all the way, then dropped my phone in the front pocket of my bag. I stood and sighed, conflicted about ending my tropical vacation. Nobody had brought me a piña colada, but th
is peaceful interlude sandwiched between the nightmare-

  behind-me and the nightmare-sure-to-come was a welcome way to spend five minutes to collect myself. I would have liked a coconut-and-rum-laced concoction, though. And not to have been questioned by those detectives. And not to have been told Melinda was killed. And not to have written that horrible manuscript. Maybe I did need a few piña coladas.

  I opened the door to a blast of cold wind and hurried to my car, politely driven here by one of the uniformed cops who’d picked me up. It then occurred to me that it wasn’t polite at all, and I’d probably given permission for him to search it, too. Fine. I had nothing to hide. I waited for a couple of squad cars to pass me in the parking lot before I turned toward home, with none of them doing so much as glancing at me.

  The detectives hadn’t acted like they thought I killed Melinda, and I understood they had to question everyone. But I couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble I was in. I gripped the steering wheel tighter than normal. It’s not a crime to write a novel. It’s not a crime to write a crime novel. It’s not even a crime to write a criminally bad crime novel. But it doesn’t matter if it was good or bad. Somebody used my imaginary crime to kill Melinda. To frame me? Because it was such compelling prose they simply couldn’t help themselves?

  Why this? Why now? Why her? Why me?

  I slumped in my seat, powerless over my circumstances. Then I straightened a bit. The cops would figure this out. Cops solved heinous murders all the time. Despite their condescension earlier, they were treating this as a routine murder, if there was such a thing, and they said none of us were in danger.

  I drove a couple more blocks. But what if they were wrong? What if I’d put my friends in some kind of danger simply by asking them to read my manuscript? I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to any of them. I had to figure it out.

  I thought about my critique group that morning. Their faces when I told them. Kell’s implication about my suspicions with Melinda and my royalties. I groaned. Why did I lie to them about meeting with her?