Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  “How many times have I told you to call me Bunny?”

  About a million. But neither my brain nor my mouth would cooperate. It was hard enough to use her daughter’s nickname. “Sorry.”

  “No, never mind. How’s that son of mine?”

  “He’s fine, but I realized I haven’t seen you in a while. Are you free for coffee?” I knew she worked just south of Denver in Castle Rock, a quick trip on the freeway.

  “I am free, and I’d love company, but I’m not at work. Can you come down to Monument? I’ll make you a home-cooked meal.”

  Monument was at least another half hour or so, almost to Colorado Springs. I checked the time. I could be down and back home before five and watch her face to see if she was telling the truth. “Sure, I can come down, but don’t bother with dinner. I can’t stay.”

  “Actually, that’s good. I’ve had a procedure, which is why I’m not at work, and I’m supposed to stay off my feet.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, just inconvenient. When can I expect you?”

  “I’ll leave right now. Forty-five minutes? An hour? Depends on traffic.”

  “That’ll give me time to hobble to the door and unlock it for you. See you soon.”

  I hopped in the car and made it in record time. I forgot the speed limit was seventy-five down there. And the Traffic Fairy granted my wish.

  I exited the freeway and wound through curving roads, most of the houses hidden by enormous spruce and pine trees. There was snow on the ground, and I was thankful the weather had cooperated today.

  I located the correct street and turned into her driveway, skidding on hidden ice down the short incline before parking and catching my breath. I knocked and opened the front door to her house, calling, “Mrs. Rabbinowitz? It’s me, Charlee.”

  “In here.”

  I followed the sound of her voice to a bedroom. She sat in the bed with her legs propped up on pillows. On either side of her there were two trays covered with everything a recuperating patient would need: tissues, water bottles, pain reliever, coffee carafe, hand lotion, cell phone, cordless house phone, several remotes, pile of paperbacks, Kindle e-reader, cookies, crackers, snacks of all kinds.

  She watched me surveying her bedquarters. “Only thing I don’t have is a bedpan!”

  “Do you need help—”

  “Nah, just went. I try to get up every so often and move around. Don’t want bedsores.” She saw the alarm on my face but waved away my concerns. “It’s nothing. I’m just down for a couple days.” She muted the sound on the TV and motioned me to a chair. “So, what do I owe the honor?”

  “Nothing, really. Just wanted to visit. If I’d known you had surgery—”

  “Just an outpatient thing. Didn’t even need the full anesthesia. Ozzi didn’t tell you?”

  I looked at my hands. “We had a fight.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “So you wanted his mama’s take on things. Let me tell you about Ozzi—”

  “No, that’s … I know why—”

  She talked over me and launched into a story about her late husband, Ozzi and Bubbles’ father.

  I didn’t really want her to dig into my relationship, but I let her talk anyway. It was a much better reason for driving all the way down here than to ask about her daughter’s alibi for a murder. She handed me snacks while she talked, which was great because she was talking up a storm. Clearly, she’d been by herself for a couple of days. I just had to find an opening to ask about Bubbles.

  “ … One thing you have to make sure of is that you’re doing enough activities together. Even if it’s just watching TV. Personally, I love TV. You young kids, though, always have to be moving and shaking … ”

  I let her voice drone over me while I ate another Oreo. If Bubbles was with her on Sunday night like Ozzi said, and she loved TV so much … “Do you watch Masterpiece Theatre on Sunday nights?”

  Her eyes widened. “I do! Love that Downton Abbey. And the mysteries. I’m glued to PBS on Sunday nights.”

  “Did you see the last episode?”

  She leaned forward. “Yes! Wasn’t it great? That Maggie Smith is a pip. Bubbles and I were laughing our heads off.”

  “Bubbles was here?”

  “Yes, we had so much fun. Since she was taking me to my surgery early on Monday, and I knew I wouldn’t be mobile for a while, I made a Downton party. We drank brandy, wore fancy hats, and I made shepherd’s pie, Yorkshire pudding, cauliflower soup, and even some spotted dick. There’s still some in the fridge if you’re interested.”

  “No thanks, I’ll pass.”

  “Don’t be a baby. It’s just cake.”

  “Can’t get past the name, but it sounds like you had fun.”

  “We did.” She picked up her cellphone and pushed some buttons. “Pictures!” she sang out.

  She handed it to me and I scrolled past dozens of photos of her and Bubbles wearing their Victorian-style hats posing next to the TV with Downton Abbey on the screen in all of them. The photos became less and less straight. I gave her the side-eye and handed the phone back.

  She laughed. “We took a slug of brandy and a picture every time somebody said something British.” She took back the phone and scrolled through some photos. “It was a particularly British episode.” She settled back against her headboard. “And maybe we were both a little nervous about the surgery.”

  “But everything went okay?”

  She nodded. “Bubbles was a peach. Got me drunk, spent the night, got me to my surgery bright and early Monday morning, and stayed with me most of the day.” She stifled a yawn.

  I took it as my cue and stood. “I’m so glad everything went okay. And thanks for the advice about Ozzi. I’m sure we’ll work it out.”

  “Just a little glitch. Are you sure you have to go?”

  “Yes, I have to get back. But it was great to see you. And thanks for the cookies.” I bent to kiss her cheek.

  “Sure you don’t want to take some spotted dick?”

  “Very sure.”

  “Be careful of the ice on the driveway. The trees keep it from melting.”

  “I will.” I let myself out and locked the door behind me. In the car, I pulled my yellow notepad from my bag, wrote “with mom” under Bubbles’ alibi, then crossed off her name. After I plugged my hands-free phone device in and called AmyJo, I eased from the driveway without mishap, now that I knew where the ice was.

  “Hey, Ames. Guess what … I crossed both Ozzi and Bubbles off my suspect list. Five down, only a dozen to go.”

  “That’s great. What are you doing? Want to get dinner?”

  “On my way home from Ozzi’s mom’s house in Monument. I think I’ll take a pass. I’m beat. I was at it crazy early this morning and I just left so it’ll be a while.” Traffic was much heavier now, still moving, but slow. I prayed there’d be no accidents or slowdowns. “I’ve been wondering something. When did everyone get to the critique meeting on Monday? I know Einstein came in right after me, but what about everyone else? Do you remember?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It feels important to have as much of a timeline from all my suspects as I can.”

  “Makes sense. Let’s see. Kell was there when I got there, duh. And Cordelia. Then after I got there, it was Jenica, then you, then Einstein.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sheesh, it’s only six people.”

  I laughed. “You didn’t write it down, did you? Isn’t that the only way you remember stuff?”

  “Hardee har har. I hope you’ve been writing stuff down, otherwise your investigation might dead-end.”

  I glanced at my yellow notepad. “Yep, writing stuff down.”

  “Seriously, though, Charlee. Be careful with all this. It just sunk in that we might know
a real live murderer! Make a plan if you decide to call anyone. Don’t just wing it.”

  After my conversations with the reporter and Bubbles, I had to agree that was solid advice.

  “And stay safe, Charlee. Let somebody know where you are at all times.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “I’m serious. You don’t know what—”

  My phone beeped. “I got another call. I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Really?”

  “Promise. Talk to you later.” I clicked to the new call.

  “How are you, kiddo?”

  “Hey, Kell.”

  “I just wanted to know how you were.”

  I didn’t want to tell him I was investigating all my friends, at least not until I could cross him off my suspect list. But I told him the truth. “I’m confusselized by everything.”

  “Sounds like a word Jenica would use in one of her picture books.”

  Jenica. I knew she and Kell were close, since he was the one who’d lobbied for her inclusion in our critique group, so I made a conversational plan right there on the spot. “Jenica seems a bit confusselized, too. So much darkness. Do you think she could have killed Melinda?”

  “No! Because she’s Goth? Isn’t that a bit judging a book by its cover?”

  “Just seems like she’s hiding something.”

  “Of course she is. We all are.”

  My skin prickled. “About Melinda?”

  “About ourselves.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for any Deepak Chopra woo-woo philosophy lecture so I said, “AmyJo said Jenica was late to that meeting. Got there just before me.”

  Hastily, Kell said, “That’s not right.”

  “AmyJo’s lying?”

  “Didn’t say that. But she’s … misremembering. Jenica was the first to arrive.”

  “Why do you say that? It’s so different from what AmyJo told me.” I was beginning to realize why Detectives Campbell-like-the-soup and Ming-like-the-vase kept asking me the same things over and over again. If you’re lying, you’ll trip up at some point.

  Kell hemmed and hawed, trying not to answer.

  “Ew,” I said. “Are you two—”

  “No! She’s young enough—Her father and I—I’ve known her since—No!”

  “Then … ”

  “Because we had a discussion before anyone got to the meeting.”

  “About what?” In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Confidential.”

  “Kell, someone’s been murdered and I’m being framed.”

  “This has nothing to do with that.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  After a pause, he said, “Fine. I had some business at Children’s Hospital last week and I saw her there.”

  “Was she sick?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Then what?” I hoped the exasperation in my voice demanded an answer and not a disconnection.

  “She swore me to secrecy. I’d seen her without her Goth look. She was there reading to kids.”

  “She doesn’t want anyone to know she has a normal side?”

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover, Charlee.”

  “Of course you can. People do it every day. It’s shorthand.”

  “Well, you can’t judge Jenica that way.”

  “But you can’t deny she’s trying to hide something with all that black eyeliner. It’s almost like a costume.”

  It was a silent standoff until Kell said, “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Call me if you need anything.”

  After we hung up, I realized he didn’t tell me if he’d been questioned by the cops yet. Probably it was no big deal for someone in his position, head of a big company, gobs of money and power. Kell had probably been in courtroom situations a lot, lawsuits, depositions, statements. None involving murder, though. None that I knew of, that is. But he had a defense team available at the push of a button, so I was sure he wouldn’t have been grilled like I was, anyway.

  I’d call his secretary and see if I could get her to confirm that he was on that red-eye flight from Chicago on Sunday night.

  I mused about the conversation, then realized what was bugging me. The Children’s Hospital. Both Melinda and Jenica were involved with it and neither one had ever mentioned it. It had to mean something. And what business would Kell have there?

  The traffic was much heavier now, but I was at the southern edge of the Denver suburbs so I took my time in the middle lane and let everyone else jockey for position while I mulled over what Kell had said about Jenica. I couldn’t figure out why it would be such a secret about her volunteering. My curiosity got the better of me, though, so I used the voice-activated feature to call Jenica.

  When she answered, I said, “Hey, do you volunteer at Children’s Hospital?” Clearly I wasn’t cut out for making a plan rather than winging it. I saw an image of AmyJo’s disapproving face.

  “No. Why?” Her voice had an edge to it.

  “Kell mentioned that you did.”

  “He did.” She didn’t ask it like a question.

  “We weren’t gossiping or anything, it just … came up … in a conversation.” The very definition of gossip. I took a breath. “It’s just that I found out Melinda was on the board there, and you volunteer there, and Kell was there, and it seems … you know … weird.”

  “I’d bet money that lots of people volunteer there, but I’m not one of them. You got faulty information.” Jenica disconnected.

  I stared at the bumper in front of me. Maybe I’d misunderstood Kell. I called him and asked for clarification. He was equally adamant that she volunteered.

  One of them was lying.

  I guessed it didn’t matter as long as Jenica’s alibi checked out, which, of course, I’d forgotten to ask her about because I couldn’t be bothered to make a plan.

  The thought of calling her back set my teeth on edge, and I needed impartial information to check her alibi anyway. She’d told AmyJo that she and her boyfriend had won tickets to the concert at the Fillmore that night and hung out afterward with the band. I could talk to her boyfriend, Dooley, but I didn’t have his phone number. As well as working as a tattoo artist by day, he took art classes at the University of Denver in the evenings and worked on campus, but I didn’t know where. I checked the time. Classes probably went until nine or so; plenty of time to get over there and track him down if he was around. It had been a long day without much sleep, but I was in the car, heading north, and maybe I could cross another name off before I crawled into bed.

  Maybe Einstein was on campus teaching tonight and I could find out his alibi, too.

  This all seemed like a plan. AmyJo would be proud.

  •

  I was completely unfamiliar with the DU campus and after considerable cursing finally found a place to park. The campus wasn’t as well-lit as I’d have liked given all the random spots of ice. I carefully picked my way toward the Art Department after consulting the You Are Here maps and asking everyone I passed. The building was quiet, though I did hear the indistinct hum of voices, probably in classrooms and studios. I wandered the halls, poking my head in wherever looked promising. But nothing was, until I stepped into a large open room with canvases hung around the perimeter, a display of every style and medium of painting in a riot of subjects and colors. A knot of twenty-somethings stood leaning on unoccupied tables. They straightened as I walked in.

  “Hi. Do any of you happen to know someone named Dooley? I think he’s an art student here,” I said.

  They shook their heads, but one of the girls said, “The department secretary is in the back. She might know. Want me to ask?”

  “Would you? That would be great.”

  The others went back to their conversations while I browsed the paintings
on the walls. They were all for sale. I assumed they were from a student show. One particular watercolor caught my eye because just by looking at it, I felt calmer, more at peace. It was a seascape with a lighthouse, not quite realism, but not quite impressionist, either. Something different, perhaps a cross between the two, a style I’d simply never encountered before despite my many trips to the art museum. I couldn’t make out the signature.

  I pointed to it. “Do any of you know who painted this?”

  A lanky student with his long hair in a man-bun strolled over. “Want to buy it?”

  “Is it yours?”

  “It can be.” He grinned at me. “Give me thirty-five bucks and I’ll never tell.”

  “Nice try,” I said.

  He leaned forward, reading the signature. “Oh, that’s one of Black’s.”

  My ears perked up. “Dooley Black?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. We call him Black.”

  “Bunch of tattoos? Skinny?”

  “Yeah. When he’s not in the studio he works over at the sandwich place past the library.”

  The girl came back. “She says she can’t give out any student information.”

  “Thanks anyway, I think I found him.” I glanced at the seascape on my way out and thought about AmyJo remarking at critique group that things weren’t always as they appeared.

  I’d only met Dooley a couple of times when he’d picked up Jenica from critique group, but this was not even close to the kind of art I expected to be in his portfolio. I’d only seen his wild and angry tattoos, which he told me he designed, and his big-boobed illustrations for Jenica’s picture books.

  I exited the art department building and immediately slipped on a patch of black ice, landing on my tailbone and my left wrist. My butt hurt as much as my pride—maybe more—and I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad nobody was around to witness and/or help me up. I gathered myself and limped in the direction they’d indicated for the sandwich shop, rubbing my wrist until it felt better. I bent it in all directions to make sure it wasn’t broken. Not so sure about my tailbone. Rubbing it seemed unladylike, but I did it anyway. Didn’t help the pain at all.

  I was happy to find Dooley behind the sandwich counter and even happier to find no one in line. In fact, the place was deserted except for one scruffy-looking guy with earbuds in and his back to us.