Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  “Now that’s a secret. But let me ask you a couple of questions. What’s all this about embezzlement?”

  “What the hell? Embezzlement?”

  “My investigation has revealed that you’ve publicly accused Ms. Walter of stealing—or at least hiding—royalties owed you by your publisher. How much money are we talking about?”

  “None! Melinda wasn’t stealing from me!” Have I used language like that in public? I drew a blank. “Who told you that?”

  “Can’t tell you. But it’s not that hard for me to find income statements. Public records are a wonderful invention.”

  “Who told you I said Melinda was stealing from me?”

  “Ms. Russo, I’m very good at my job. Suffice it to say, I’ve spoken with everyone you know and everyone who knew Ms. Walter. Now, was the amount of these royalties large enough to warrant murdering your agent?”

  I felt all the blood rush to my head. My mild hand tremor turned into a full-body vibration, like I was sitting on, holding, and brushing my teeth with industrial jackhammers. Lance was right. Reporters were tricky. Why in the world had I called him? If I said, “No, the amount wasn’t large,” he’d write that I’d murdered her for not much of a reason. And if I said yes ...

  “I didn’t kill Melinda.” I pulled the phone from my ear, then brought it back. “And that’s ON the record.” This was one of the few times I longed for a sturdy landline I could slam down. Hanging up with attitude was simply not satisfactory on cellphones.

  I put my head between my knees and tried not to barf. The whooshing in my brain slowed enough that I didn’t think I’d faint in the next few minutes. I raised my head and slumped in my chair. I still vibrated, but it seemed with less horsepower.

  Staring at my phone, I wondered who to call. Who could help me? Who would tell me what they told the reporter? And whether they told the police the same thing? But if the police suspected me, they’d have been here by now, wouldn’t they? That’s what happened on TV, anyway. Every murder was solved in an hour, less twenty-two minutes for commercials.

  Life wasn’t like TV, though, was it? Bad guys didn’t always go to jail. People rarely broke out into song or tap dance numbers. Conversations weren’t perfectly witty and accompanied by a laugh track. If Elmer Fudd wasn’t a cartoon character, surely he’d have blown the stuffing out of that wascally wabbit by now.

  Rabbit. I glanced toward the kitchen window, wondering if Peter was still outside. I stuffed my feet in my boots and pulled on a coat.

  I kept to the sidewalk again, calling as I walked. “Peter … you out here?” I thought I heard rustling and stopped to listen, trying to determine its location. I walked a few more steps and saw footprints in the snow leading from the dry sidewalk over the decorative fence. Guilt flooded me as I pictured Barb or Don struggling over the fence to get Peter. I cleared the corner of the building and saw the juniper bush straight ahead. But I only saw tiny pawprints there.

  I scanned the snow around the bushes. Just some straight pawprint paths, like doggy arrows shot into the junipers. No human footprints going toward the bush. My eyes studied the snowy expanse from the juniper bushes to where I stood on the sidewalk.

  The footprints in the snow near the sidewalk didn’t go toward the bushes. They stopped at my patio. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather raced down my spine. My feet were rooted to the sidewalk, my eyes following the tracks. Someone had tromped to my patio and stepped over the wrought-iron fence that surrounded it. It was one thing to step over the decorative fencing that ran along the sidewalk, but this was a much higher fence, almost a wall. With a start I realized they had peeked in the sliding door—maybe even tried to open it. Then I noticed more prints leading away from the edge of the patio, hugging the wall all the way to my kitchen window.

  As I stared, trying to wrap my brain around someone peering in the corners of both my patio door and my kitchen window, a car alarm shrieked. I performed a clunky pirouette in mid-air and raced toward the apartment stairs. Chest heaving, I banged on Don and Barb’s door.

  When Barb opened it, I asked, “Did either of you come down to get Peter out of the bushes today?”

  Barb frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so, dear.” Turning into the apartment, she called, “Don? Did you go down for Peter today?”

  I heard him say he hadn’t.

  “I don’t think Peter’s been out since you brought him back earlier. Which reminds me, he might want to go out now.” Again, Barb faced the interior of the apartment. “Peter, do you need to go out?”

  I stepped forward in time to see Peter in his sheepskin bed answer her by curling his nose tighter into his tail.

  “Thanks for checking on us, dear.” Barb began to close the door. “Now get back inside or you’ll catch your death.”

  That’s exactly what I was afraid of, too.

  I raced down the steps, pausing near Suzanne’s apartment. I raised my hand to knock but pulled it away at the last second, instead stepping into my apartment. I hurried back out carrying the banana bread still wrapped in plastic.

  When Suzanne answered my knock, I held out the loaf. “Hey, Barb made this but I can’t have walnuts. Do you want it?”

  “You bet.” She snatched it away. “Thanks.”

  “Hey,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Were you on my patio today? I saw some footprints … ”

  “Yesterday, when I was trying to get your attention so I could give you those books.”

  My breath released in a whoosh. Of course. “And you walked along the wall to my kitchen window?”

  Suzanne shook her head vigorously. “Nope. Not me.”

  My heartbeat jumped to double-time and I took a step backward from her. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She squinted. “Why?”

  “No reason. Just wondered.” I tried to control the squeak in my voice, but wasn’t sure I succeeded.

  “You have a Peeping Tom?”

  I gave her a tight smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but keep an eye out, okay?”

  She agreed and called out a thanks for the banana bread, but I had shut and locked my door by the time it reached me.

  I dialed Lance and told him I thought someone had been peeping in my windows.

  “It’s your imagination. Right there in front? I doubt it. Now, at those buildings in back, where Ozzi’s is, absolutely. Nobody goes back there. But you’re right on the sidewalk, near the parking lot with all those lights.”

  “There are footprints in the snow right along the building from my patio to my kitchen window.”

  “You saw them go right up to your window, but not past it?”

  “No. I didn’t look that close. I stayed on the sidewalk.” I began to feel foolish. Now I couldn’t even say for sure the footprints weren’t there earlier when I’d collected Peter O’Drool. Or even last week.

  “Maybe maintenance came by to check something. You need to take a breath and chill, Space Case.”

  Hearing his childhood nickname for me was oddly comforting. I took a breath but was not anywhere near chill. He talked a bit more, being logical, trying to calm me down, but I quit listening to his words. Instead I let the sound and cadence of his voice wash over me.

  Finally I interrupted whatever he was saying. “Will you come over?”

  “Can’t. Got a shift in twenty minutes. Go … eat some soup or something.”

  “I don’t have any soup.”

  “Eat cereal. Watch TV. Have you been sleeping?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, that’s it then. You’re going bonkers from lack of soup and sleep. Just like you’d get during finals.”

  “Murderers and stalkers are hardly the same as college exams.”

  “True. But when you’re tired, you tend to freak out over little stuff. Have Ozzi cook you a
nice dinner tonight and drink that wine you’ve been saving. Call maintenance. Things will be better tomorrow after you’re thinking straight.”

  Maybe. “Are you sure you can’t come over?”

  “I told you, I—”

  “Fine.”

  “Call me if you need me.” He quickly added, “But you won’t.”

  He was probably right. It was my imagination. I thought about those footprints leading from the sidewalk to my patio. Yes, most likely made by Suzanne. She either forgot or just didn’t want to say that she’d peeked in the kitchen.

  Or it was a maintenance guy. Lance was probably right.

  I sighed, wondering if he was right about Ozzi, too. I reached for my phone to call him but drew my hand back. I wanted to kiss Ozzi and have him wrap me in a hug, but it still hurt, remembering how he made me feel. Was I just being stubborn? Were we mismatched? This was our only big crisis so far and we weren’t handling it very well. Besides, was it fair to drag him into my drama? He didn’t sign up for that.

  I couldn’t afford to use any brain cells to figure out how to save my love life. I needed them to save my real life.

  I wanted to talk to my mom. An adult. An adultier adult. I covered my face with my palms and remembered Jonathan Crier’s words. He said he’d spoken with everyone I knew. My mom, too? Tears sprang to my eyes. The last I’d heard from her was that text message she’d left me on Monday before I heard about Melinda. She didn’t know anything about any of this. Or at least I hoped she didn’t.

  I picked up my phone with shaky hands and dialed her number. Her message came on. She’d changed it since the last time I’d called.

  “If this is some reporter, hang up now. I’m not talking. And if it’s you, Bug, you be careful.”

  I clicked off. “I will, Mom. But I don’t know what to be careful of.”

  Fourteen

  I needed to find out who, specifically, had talked to Jonathan Crier and what they’d said. No. I needed to find out who killed Melinda. I looked over my list of suspects. What kind of alibis did they have? I thought back to my research about mercury. I closed my eyes and watched my murderer in Mercury Rising prepare for and commit the crime …

  Ordering the mercury online. Putting on gloves. Jimmying the lock on the car. Using Glu-Pocalypse to keep the heater on high and the windows closed. Spreading the beads of mercury under the driver’s side floor mat.

  I shook my head. I didn’t know anyone who would do that. Maybe I was going about this wrong. What I needed to do was clear everyone. Prove they didn’t do it. I pulled my list toward me.

  The one name on there that I most wanted to clear was Ozzi. Even though his motive was nonexistent, I couldn’t just pick up the phone and ask him about his alibi. I fiddled with a pen while I thought. The only thing I could think of that would make him get up in the middle of the night, shower, and leave my apartment would be if he got a call from his mom or from work. During our fight he’d told me that his sister had been with their mom, so even if there’d been some sort of emergency, Bubbles was there to handle it. Unless maybe they’d both been in a car accident. No, he would have told me that. I couldn’t come up with any plausible emergency scenario involving his mother, so the only other option was a work emergency.

  I thought about Jonathan Crier and picked up the phone. Instead of calling Ozzi’s cell, I called his main office number. After threading my way through the automated jungle, keying in the responses I hoped wouldn’t disconnect me, I was rewarded by a woman’s Southern drawl. “Tech support. What can I do for ya’ll today?”

  Waiting for the automated choices to be announced, I wondered about a Denver-based tech company using a sweet Georgia peach on their recording.

  “Hello? Darlin’, I’m ’bout as busy as a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest, so if ya’ll ain’t got a question for me to answer, then—”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re a real person!”

  “Real as apple butter. Who’m I talkin’ at?”

  I stammered, trekking back to the plan I’d made before falling into voicemail hell. “I … I’m Jon … abelle Crier from the Denver Post.”

  “Jonabelle?”

  “I was named after my grandparents.”

  “Well, bless your heart. And what can I do for you?”

  I took a stab. “I’m calling to ask about a recent server crash that your technicians responded to. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I do indeed. It had everyone scrambling around like cats on a marble floor.” She paused. “Wanna quote me?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Well, write this down. I’m Miss Lulaila—that’s L-U-L-A-I-L-A—Philpott, of the Willacoochee Philpotts. Ever been to Willacoochee?”

  “I don’t believe so, no.”

  “Oh, you’d know it. It’s hotter’n a billy goat in a pepper patch ten months out of the year.”

  “I’ll make a note. So … the server crash? When was that, exactly?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. We put out the all-hands-on-deck call round about eleven Sunday night—I remember because I was worried about the sweet tea brewin’ and chillin’ in time—and finally got the fox out of that particular henhouse Monday lunchtime. I remember because I was so hungry my belly thought my throat been cut. I tell you what, when all the fussin’ was over, I felt like I was rode hard and put away wet. Slept clear through till Tuesday.”

  “Do you remember seeing Ozzi Rabbinowitz there?”

  “I do indeed. He was madder’n a wet hen when he found out somebody threw a clod in the churn.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  She lowered her voice. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you none of this, but it wasn’t no hacker like we thought. It was one of our own IT guys, dumber than a box of rocks. He been fired, but I shouldn’t say who he is. His mama may read that paper of yours.”

  “Paper? Oh, yes, the paper.” She’d been so entertaining I’d almost forgotten. “No names. It’s not even an article about the server crash. Just some deep background for another story.”

  “I’d sure like to hear ’bout it, but I got calls backin’ up clear to Canada. Anything else I can do you for?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m good.”

  “Well then, you have a blessed day.”

  I grinned and hung up the phone. Miss Lulaila Philpott of the Willacoochee Philpotts had just cleared Ozzi’s name.

  In the alibi space next to his name, I wrote “At work” and then crossed him off the list.

  My confidence was high, so I searched the list for the next person I wanted to clear. Sheelah. She’d been in the ER and went to the dentist in the morning. I chewed the pen cap. Easy enough to verify her alibi if I knew the name of her dentist.

  I dialed her number. “Hey, Sheelah … ” Suddenly I had no idea what to say.

  “Charlee? What’s the matter?”

  “I … I … need to know the name of your dentist.” It all came out as one word.

  She didn’t respond for a long time. Then, “Dr. Sayles in Castle Rock. His office manager is Monica. She can confirm my alibi.”

  “Sheelah, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know you have to check. I’d do it too, if I were in your shoes. It’s just—”

  At the same time we both said, “Weird.”

  After we hung up, I googled the dentist and found his number. I asked for Monica and explained what I needed.

  “That’s privileged information. We follow HIPAA rules around here. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “Will you at least call Sheelah and ask her permission to tell me? I’m sure she’ll agree.”

  “No promises.” Click.

  As I was brainstorming other ways to verify Sheelah’s alibi—none of them logical or easy—my phone rang. Dr. Sayles’ number.

  “Monica?
”

  “Miss Russo, I’ve spoken with Sheelah Doyle and I can verify she had a dental emergency last Sunday night when she contacted our on-call dentist. She was directed to the emergency room and was in our office first thing Monday morning.”

  She sounded like she was reading from a script, and maybe she was. I’d signed enough of those HIPAA forms to know patient privacy was a huge deal.

  “Thank you so much, Monica. I appreciate it.”

  “I hope I wasn’t rude, but you can’t be too careful with the personal information you give out these days.”

  “Of course not. You’re just doing your job. I get that. And you weren’t at all rude. Thanks again.”

  With a relieved breath I crossed off Sheelah’s name too.

  Bubbles was next. Even though I’d shouted an accusation about Ozzi’s sister the other night, I knew her motive was weak. If I could verify she was at their mom’s house, then that would be three names crossed off in less than an hour. Plus, I knew my anger at Ozzi was fading and this would be an excellent way to broker a truce.

  I called her, my heart feeling lighter than it had since all this ugliness began. “Hey, Bubbles? Do you have a minute? I was wondering what you were doing the night before Melinda was killed.”

  Silence.

  “Bubbles? You there?”

  “Charlee, did you just accuse me of killing your agent?”

  “No, I—” Probably should have thought this through better.

  “Because if you’re looking for someone to throw under the bus—or in this case, the classic Corvette—then you better go look in your mirror. Don’t call me again, and stay away from my brother.”

  “No, Bubbles ...” But she was gone.

  I swallowed my pride and dialed Ozzi to try and mitigate anything she might say to him. Straight to voicemail. I called Bubbles back. Also voicemail. She’d beat me to him. I ran my hands through my hair.

  That’s what I got for being cocky.

  I considered my options for checking Bubbles’ alibi and could only come up with one. I dialed the phone.

  “Hey, Mrs. Rabbinowitz, it’s Charlee. How are you?”