Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  Finally, he sighed. “Let’s go inside. I need some coffee. Want some?”

  Like I wanted oxygen. “Yes, please.”

  We crossed the parking lot into the office, furtively stared at by four or five mechanics pretending to be busy.

  After he ushered me to a chair, closed the door, and handed me a steaming cup, he sat behind his desk. He sipped his coffee, staring at me over the rim. “So. You think we stole something from you out of Ms. Walter’s car. What’s your game? Blackmail? Phony insurance claim? With her gone, trying to make it a case of he said, she said?”

  “What? No!” My coffee sloshed in my trembling hand and I placed the cup on his desk. I had to nudge aside a nameplate that read Bob Dunphy. “Let me start over, Mr. Dunphy. My understanding is that Joaquin worked on Melinda’s car in the last few weeks.” He nodded. “Melinda was my literary agent and she had one of my new manuscripts in her possession. I’m trying to determine if one of your mechanics—Joaquin, perhaps—might have pulled it out of the car. Maybe read it?”

  All the tension left Dunphy’s face and he smiled. “Well, first off, Joaquin is the only one who Ms. Walter allowed to touch her car, so there’d be no other mechanics involved.”

  “Are you sure nobody else would work on her car?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you knew Ms. Walter. Do you really think one of my guys would do something against her wishes? They’re not stupid. They wouldn’t have wanted to take that risk. Ms. Walter was … demanding, as I’m sure you knew.”

  I nodded. “Yes, she was … demanding.”

  “I don’t want to talk ill about the dead, but Joaquin actually drew the short straw. He seemed to have a way with her, though.”

  Like a snake charmer, perhaps. “That may be, but isn’t it possible he could have read the manuscript?”

  “Nope.” Seeing my skepticism, he pushed a button on his intercom and spoke in Spanish.

  I heard the tinny echo of his voice in the adjoining garage. It didn’t take long before a muscular Hispanic man, maybe forty-ish, opened the office door. Dunphy waved him in and motioned me to speak to him.

  “Joaquin, my name is Charlemagne Russo. I wanted to ask, the last time you worked on Melinda Walter’s car, did you find a manuscript on the back seat?”

  The mechanic rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Cómo?”

  “It was a stack of papers about this big”—I spread my thumb and forefinger about two inches apart—“with a big black binder clip at the top.”

  Joaquin looked at me, then at Dunphy, who rummaged in his desk and pulled one out. Dunphy spoke in Spanish and I hoped he was translating what I said.

  Joaquin shook his head.

  “Joaquin, do you speak any English?” I asked.

  He smiled and spread his thumb and forefinger about two inches apart, as I had. “Car stuff.” When I didn’t respond, he and Dunphy conversed in rapid-fire Spanish.

  Dunphy said, “He wants you to know he’s sorry about your friend, but he saw nothing like you describe.”

  “Gracias.” My high school Spanish was rusty, since I took French, so I mimed reading a book. “Inglés?”

  He smiled back, shaking his head.

  “Joaquin is one of the brightest men I have working here. Fine family man, but he barely speaks English and doesn’t read a lick of it.” Dunphy sent Joaquin back to work, with apologies for the interruption.

  Topping off our coffees, he asked me, “So what’s the big deal about this manuscript? Surely you have another copy if you’ve lost it.”

  I stared at him, trying to decide how much to say. “You mentioned the police and reporters earlier, so I’m guessing you know Melinda’s death was perhaps not accidental. So, I’m wondering … ”

  “What our alibis are?”

  I blushed but kept eye contact with him.

  Dunphy waved an arm vaguely toward the garage. “Ms. Russo, all the men who work back there are related to each other. Brothers, uncles, sons, cousins. We have a close-knit crew. We were all at Joaquin’s daughter’s quinceañera on Sunday. Everybody was there very late, including me and my wife, even though we open at six on Monday morning. Every single one of my mechanics was here with me to open.” He pulled out his phone, pushed a couple of buttons, and handed it to me. “Pictures. A lovely girl and a fantastic party.”

  I swiped through the photos, seeing Joaquin with a beaming woman, probably his wife, posing with the girl and many others. There were photos of them in church, photos of Joaquin kneeling in front of his daughter and placing high heels on her feet, photos of groaning tables of food and gifts. There were selfies of Dunphy and there were photos of a packed dance floor. Even photos of people taking photos.

  All time- and date-stamped from Sunday evening into the wee hours of Monday morning. The final one was a cockeyed selfie of two obviously drunk men, Bob Dunphy and Joaquin, at 2:56 Monday morning.

  “That looked like some party.” I handed the phone back. “But—”

  “Ms. Russo, I don’t want to be rude, but it seems to me you’re implying that Joaquin might have had something to do with Ms. Walter’s death. Like I said, he’s a family man. Melinda lives not too far from here, right? Joaquin and his brothers all live way out past the airport, in Platteville. They pile into a van to drive over an hour to work every day, and Joaquin doesn’t drive. Only one of the boys has a license. Do you really think Joaquin would leave his daughter’s party, grab his nephew, and drive all the way down here to do harm to someone?”

  It did seem far-fetched, especially seeing how happy Joaquin looked in those pictures. “Where was the party?” I asked.

  “Platteville. Ceremony and reception at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, then after-party at Joaquin’s house.”

  With the timestamps of the photos, it meant Joaquin couldn’t have even left the party before three in the morning. Assuming he’d left right after that last photo was taken, he would have arrived at Melinda’s around four, spent time tampering with her car, driven an hour back home, and still made it to work by six? The timeline didn’t work.

  We had a twenty second stare-down.

  “I’m really trying to figure this out,” Dunphy said. “He obviously didn’t tamper with Ms. Walter’s car. Wait. Are you accusing him of stealing your manuscript? What would his motive be? Put his name on it and pass it off as his own? Sell it on the black market?” He finished his coffee. “Ludicrous.”

  I had to agree. I finished my coffee and stood. “I guess you’re right.”

  “But there is one thing. The last time Ms. Walter had her car in, it was picked up by her obnoxious assistant who insisted we keep a set of car keys here. It’s not how we do business—we only keep keys while we’re working on the cars—but she said it was what Ms. Walter wanted and threatened to send her down herself to explain things if I needed it.” He shrugged. “The last thing I needed was her coming down here and tearing me a new one.”

  “So you kept a set of keys to Melinda’s car here?” My ears perked up.

  “Only for the past couple of weeks. Since the last time she had it serviced.” He pulled a fully-loaded key chain from his pocket and unlocked his desk drawer. From the drawer he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He slipped a finger into it and after some effort extracted a single silver key on a plain ring. Next he removed a small lockbox from a different locked drawer, which he proceeded to open with the silver key. “Can’t be too careful.” He handed me a set of keys, which was the only thing in the lockbox. “Since you’re friends with Ms. Walter, can you please give these to her husband? He might want them, as a token, but I don’t want to impose on him right now.”

  Neither did I, but I nodded.

  Eight

  I sat in my car in front of the car repair shop and reconsidered my plan. I really, really wanted Joaquin to be more suspicious and/or have a flimsy alibi, and whi
le his time could not be completely accounted for, it seemed highly implausible he randomly picked up my manuscript from Melinda’s car because he saw it sitting there, had it translated into Spanish, read it, then used the information to stage Melinda’s murder. Even if it was a lie that he didn’t read English, it still seemed unlikely.

  But I really, really wanted it to be him. He was the only stranger on my suspect list and now I had to cross him off.

  I also had to take the keys to Henry. I wasn’t sure he’d want keys to Melinda’s totalled car, but who was I to judge? I still had the key to my dad’s work locker hanging on my rear view mirror. I flicked it and started the car. While I was pulling my seat belt on, I got a text from Q.

  Your publisher sent papers you need to sign. I’ll be in the office all day.

  I groaned. “That can’t be good news.” My publisher must have gotten word of Melinda’s death. Since she was the sole proprietor of the agency, there were no other agents to handle my career. I was on my own. I just sent a simple thumbs-up emoji to Q in reply, planning to swing by after I went to Henry’s.

  When I got to the house Henry and Melinda used to share, I stood on the porch a long time before pressing the bell. I’m sure he knew I was there, since I’d had to stop at the gatehouse and let the guard know where I was going. Bless Henry for allowing me time to compose myself.

  He opened the door and extended his hand. “Miss Russo, it’s so nice of you to stop by.”

  “Hi, Mr. Walter. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I wanted to give you my condolences. And these.” I dangled Melinda’s car keys between us. “Her mechanic wanted you to have them.”

  “Why were you talking to Melinda’s mechanic?” He didn’t take his eyes off the keys dangling from my index finger.

  “That’s a long story. But I understand if you don’t want them.” I started to put them in my jacket pocket, but he grabbed my wrist.

  “No. I’ll take them.” He slid them into the pocket of his khakis. “Why did they have her keys?” He searched my face for an answer I didn’t have.

  He looked so tired and haggard, my heart broke for him. “Mr. Walter … never mind. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Not a bother. It’s nice to have company for a bit. Will you come in? I just made coffee.”

  “Ohmygosh, I should have checked the time. It’s so early. I didn’t sleep last night, so I just assumed the whole world would be up.”

  “I haven’t slept much either. It’s hard to wrap your brain around the idea that you go to bed one night with your wife, then it’s never going to happen again.” He pointed a finger at me. “Don’t take lovely normal weekends for granted, Miss Russo. Because then a Monday might come along and change your whole life.” He twisted his wedding band, then abruptly stopped and rubbed a hand over his stubble. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be such a burden. Come in and have some coffee with me. Keep me company for a bit. And please call me Henry.”

  “Only if you call me Charlee.”

  “Deal.”

  He stepped aside to let me in, then led the way through the sprawling house to the kitchen. Melinda’s home was not at all how I’d pictured it. Instead of sterile chrome and monochromatic decor, it was filled with warm leather furniture tucked with colorful pillows and throws, bright rugs on the wood floors. I was struck by two things in the kitchen—the gorgeous jade-colored countertop and the lack of any casseroles or flower arrangements on it. My hand slid over the surface before I could stop myself.

  “Enameled lava from a volcano in France. Melinda searched for just the right thing for years. And this was it.” He rapped it with his knuckles.

  “France has volcanos?”

  “I guess. It wasn’t part of the discussion.” Henry selected two dainty cups from a wrought-iron tree and filled them from a machine that looked like it cost more than my car. He handed one to me and waved me to a bistro table in an alcove. He sat across from me, sipping his coffee.

  I sipped my coffee, too, relieved that his coffee tasted no different than the coffee I brewed in my El Cheapo brand coffee maker. I didn’t need any more aspirational products in my life.

  We sat in silence for a few moments before I spoke, almost inaudibly. “I wanted to find out about the funeral arrangements.”

  Henry cleared his throat. “There aren’t any yet. There’s going to be an autopsy, and the timing … ”

  I let the pause hang in the air for a moment. “I understand, but would you let me know as soon as—”

  “Did Melinda seem depressed to you?” Henry asked abruptly. “I thought her antidepressants were working, but for her to deliberately crash into a tree … ”

  It felt like he’d just forced me to swallow a rock. Melinda was on medication? He didn’t know about the mercury? Was he trying to deliberately mislead me?

  I thought my face remained impassive, but he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be troubling you with this. Especially with all the financial turmoil you’re in now.”

  Now I knew my face belied my emotions because I felt it flush. “Financial turmoil?”

  “Oh, no. You don’t know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Please, tell me.” I gripped the edge of the table with both hands as I felt the flush traveling; only a matter of time before it hit my tremor and made it worse.

  Henry took a deep breath and pursed his lips sympathetically. “The agency’s assets were frozen as soon as Melinda’s death was recorded by the coroner. Nobody can touch the funds. I asked our attorney if I can pay royalties to her authors, but he said I can’t. It’s a probate thing.”

  I made a mental accounting of my finances and it wasn’t pretty. “For how long?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “What if I terminated the contract I have—had—with Melinda? Would they have to pay me as one of the creditors?”

  “I don’t think so. And your contract isn’t with Melinda, it’s with the agency.”

  I nodded absentmindedly. Melinda and the agency were interchangeable to me. “I should still terminate the contract.”

  “I understand.” Henry rose from the table and shuffled through a stack of files on the corner of the counter. He handed me some pages from one. “Look at Clause 17, Dissolution or Death.”

  I raked my eyes over the front page and saw that it was a copy of my contract with Melinda. The agency.

  Was two days the appropriate amount of time for spousal grief before the practicalities set in? I flashed back to when Dad died. Mom sent the insurance and police union guys away for weeks before she could face talking to them. Was it the difference between rich people and middle class? I glanced at Henry and then quickly looked away. Or was it the difference between people who loved their lost one and people who didn’t?

  “Clause 17. Third page.” Henry waggled a finger at the papers in my hand.

  I found the clause. “All monies due Melinda B. Walter Agency, including commissions on royalties and on all secondary sales arising from literary material for which Melinda B. Walter Agency has sold primary rights, shall remain due and owing Melinda B. Walter Agency heirs upon the death or incapacitation of all principals of Melinda B. Walter Agency or the dissolution of Melinda B. Walter Agency.”

  I had a million questions but couldn’t form any.

  Henry picked up our cups and refilled them. “I’m Melinda’s only heir, so now I own the agency. As soon as everything goes through probate, I’ll be your new agent.” He handed me my coffee, then, standing over me, clinked it with his. “Congratulations, partner.”

  I set the cup down without drinking and flipped through the pages of my contract. My mind raced. My new agent? Did he even know the business? Did he have contacts with publishers? Editors? Anyone in the industry? I looked up at him. “How will you be able to just step into her business? Will you have a partner? Keep
Q on as your assistant?”

  Henry’s face clouded. “Just between you and me, I don’t trust that girl. It’s crossed my mind that she could have cut Melinda’s brakes or something. She had all of Melinda’s keys, knew her schedule, hell, knew everything about her. And you of all people should know Mel wasn’t the easiest to get along with.”

  He was blaming Q for Melinda’s death? He barely knew me. He shouldn’t have been talking like this. I studied the contract.

  His voice lost its edge and he sounded downright perky. “How hard can agenting be? It’s just a game of numbers, profit and loss, right? It’ll be fine, Charlee. You’ll see. I just wish I could send you your royalties as soon as they come.”

  “Henry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I do want to terminate my contract with the agency, like it says in Clause 4.” I pointed to it while I read. “After the initial term of this Agreement, either party may terminate this Agreement at any time upon thirty (30) days prior notice.” I raised my eyes. “Consider this my thirty days notice.”

  He nodded, still smiling. “And in four years or so, I’ll be happy to discuss it.”

  “Four years?”

  “Read Clause 2. You’re not through your initial term yet.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This was exactly what I’d been telling my critique group the other day. I’d signed a horrible contract. But that wasn’t why I was there. I had to set the contract aside for now because I was supposed to be investigating my list of suspects.

  And Henry was fast rising to the top. All this, plus what Cordelia had told me about the business dealings gone bad with her husband, and my musings about romantic affair scenarios between the two couples didn’t seem so over-the-top now.

  “Do you know Byron Hollister-Fiske?” I asked. “He’s the husband of my friend Cordelia.”

  “Byron? Cordelia? What do they have to do with anything?” Henry narrowed his eyes at me. “What have they been saying?” He walked across the kitchen, then turned. “Why are you really here?” He yanked the contract from my hands. “I think you should go.”