Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

  “Don’t be cranky,” AmyJo replied. “It’s not my fault you have a bladder the size of a lentil. Let’s see … Even if she is doing this for your benefit tonight, it’s obvious she knows her way around in there.”

  “True. And I still can’t come up with a motive for her. She has no connection to Melinda.”

  “That you know of.” AmyJo yawned.

  “That I know of.” The car was warm enough, so I turned off the engine. Silence settled over us.

  “Really? That’s all we have to talk about?” I finally said.

  AmyJo didn’t answer. Her mouth hung open and she was fast asleep.

  My full concentration was on my bladder now, and it was demanding some sort of action. I contemplated driving home and running inside to pee, but what if Suzanne left the coffee shop while we were gone? I had to pretend I was camping. Urban camping, since there were no trees nearby. I hated the idea, but I quietly shut the door of the Kia and picked my way through the snow toward the dumpster.

  I held my breath, undid my jeans, and squatted. Relief was momentary because I heard a disembodied voice say, “You nasty, girl. Git yo’self outta here.”

  There is a physiological truth—at least for me—that once I begin peeing, I must finish the task completely. If I hold my breath, I must start breathing again soon. If I tense my muscles, I must start moving again soon. And now that I’d done all three, all systems had to, pardon the pun, go again.

  So they did, even though the homeless person I’d disturbed began to stir. Something whacked at me, occasionally landing a soft blow on my arm or back. I was completely at his or her mercy, with my pants around my ankles at two in the morning in the snow in an alley behind a coffee shop.

  I finished as quickly as possible, doing up my pants while on the move away from the voice and the dumpster.

  “You white girls. Drink too much, then pee in somebody’s house.” A scraggly-bearded face wrapped tight in a blanket scowled at me in the faint moonlight. He waved a small hand-towel, which is what he must have been hitting me with.

  My terror faded a bit, especially since I had my hand on the car door. “You’re absolutely right, sir, that was terribly rude of me,” I stage-whispered. I dove into the car and slammed the door shut behind me, locking it. I was gasping and panting, more scared now than when I was out there.

  “My brain must have been so relieved, ugh, to pee that I didn’t—” I turned to AmyJo. Sound asleep. I looked back toward the dumpster. It was clear, I could see now, that it was makeshift housing: cardboard lean-to supported on one side by a full shopping cart, tarps and blankets cascading down to the asphalt. I was happy to see that I’d peed on a slight incline, directed away from his shelter.

  I dug in my purse and pulled out a twenty and a protein bar. I tiptoed back to the man, whispering, “Hey, I want you to have this. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  He poked his head out and yelled, “Why do you keep bothering me? Leave me alone!”

  I dropped the cash and weighed it down with the bar, then hurried back to my car again, hoping Suzanne wouldn’t hear. It might not matter if she saw me, but if she was playing some game and using me as one of her pawns, then I should at least try to keep the upper hand.

  But I’d rather both she and the homeless guy simply went back to what they were doing and ignore me.

  I stared at the dumpster, finally seeing a hand reach out to snatch my apology from the snow.

  AmyJo continued to snore while I tried to figure out exactly what I was doing out there. Suddenly I jolted and realized I’d fallen asleep, too. I had no idea if it had been a few minutes or an hour. Everything looked the same in the alley.

  “Ames, wake up.” I poked her in the upper arm until she stirred.

  She straightened and groaned. “Ow. This is not a comfy car.”

  “I don’t think they ever marketed it as a bed.” I rearranged myself. “I fell asleep too. I’m going back around to see if she’s still in there.”

  I snuck around the front of the building, again hoping nobody would see me. All this time and I still hadn’t come up with a plausible reason for skulking around in the middle of the night. Not very good for a fiction writer.

  I crawled the last few feet on my hands and knees until I was directly under the window again, glad that Lavar and Tuttle had cleared the sidewalk. I inched my way upward and peeked in. The furniture was still where Suzanne had moved it, but no dog sprawled on the rug. I raised myself higher. Still nothing. I stood mashed against the wall at the intersection where it met the window and craned my neck, sure I’d missed her.

  I was about to give up and go home when the dog, tail wagging madly, raced over to the window. I ducked out of sight in case Suzanne was still inside. I peeked and saw the dog race across the bookstore side of the shop. She stopped in front of Suzanne, who held a medium-sized Amazon box. I watched her pluck titles off the shelves, read the backs, and replace most of them haphazardly until she’d dropped three books into the box. She slid the box onto the front counter and went around behind, returning with three cellophane-wrapped butter braids that she plopped into the top of the box. Squatting down, she rubbed and petted the dog, then picked up her box and headed toward the back of the shop.

  I raced around the side of the building, slipping and sliding the whole way. When the Kia came into view, I frantically waved at AmyJo to move the car so Suzanne wouldn’t see.

  The car wasn’t moving. When I got closer, I saw AmyJo wasn’t either. Her mouth hung open and I knew she was snoring.

  If Suzanne came out and looked to her left, she’d see my car at the other end of the alley. If she saw the car, she’d know I was there. If she knew I was there—oh my gosh! Did she lure me to the coffee shop for some reason? I dove back to the front of the building. I didn’t know what to do. AmyJo was in the car. Was she in danger if Suzanne saw her? I peeked around the corner but didn’t see Suzanne. I took some long strides toward the car.

  I froze and let loose with a strangled cry when a pool of light spilled out the back door of the coffee shop. But it didn’t quite reach me.

  The homeless man stuck his head out of his tent. He stared at me, then the Kia, then Suzanne emerging from the shop, juggling her box. He scrambled out of his tarps and blankets. I stepped backward, ready to flee.

  He shuffled toward Suzanne. “Hey,” he said to her.

  She jumped. “Oh, hey, Daryl. I didn’t think you’d be out here tonight. You should be in the shelter.”

  “Hate the shelter. You know dat.” He maneuvered around, taking the box from her and making sure her back was to me while she locked up Espresso Yourself. “That my blueberry?” He pulled out one of the butter braids. While they discussed the merits of blueberry over strawberry, he looked at me from over her shoulder and tipped his head toward the Kia. He turned back to Suzanne. “I ever tell you the story of when I was a professor?”

  I took the opportunity to make a dash for the Kia after giving him a wave of gratitude. I slid into the car and before the engine had barely turned over, I reversed out of the alley.

  AmyJo bolted upright, and I told her what had happened as I careened home. We raced for my regular parking spot and then for my front door. I kept the lights off and peeked out from behind the curtains. Less than ten minutes later, Suzanne trudged through the snow carrying the box.

  A few minutes later we heard her front door open and close, and we collapsed on the couch.

  •

  My respite was short-lived, however, because about as soon as I finished peeing—again—I heard Suzanne’s front door open. The clock on my microwave said 3:27. AmyJo was curled up on the couch with an afghan my mom had crocheted. I peeked out and saw Suzanne heading for her car wearing a parka and hospital green scrubs. She carried something in a plastic grocery bag.

  I left AmyJo sleeping, and as soon as Suzanne was ou
t of sight I hurried to the Kia and followed her. Since there were no cars on the road, I had to stay far back so she wouldn’t see me. I was afraid I’d lose her.

  She stayed on the main streets, not always performing precisely legal stops. It was clear she was going someplace she’d been before, hopefully the Senior Center so I could verify that part of her alibi. After about twenty minutes, I almost cheered as she pulled into the Senior Center parking lot and parked in a space close to the front door. She got out and took the bag with her.

  I waited in my car for a bit, trying to decide what I should do. Now my surveillance had taken a turn into the unknown. I watched while she left the main building through a side door and entered another building. Lights flickered on, so it seemed she was staying there for a bit. Or at least I hoped so.

  I parked on the other side of the lot and hurried into the main building. The door to the vestibule was open but the one into the rest of the building was locked. When I jiggled the door, a nurse looked up. She smiled and waved and then the buzzer sounded, allowing me in.

  She took a few steps toward me, then frowned. “You’re not the temp nurse.”

  I shook my head. “No, sorry.”

  She crossed her arms. “What can I do for you at four a.m., then?”

  “I don’t want to bother you, but I work weird hours and this was the only time I could stop in and inquire about this place for my, um, mother.” My mom was barely AARP age, but nobody needed to know that. And if I told Mom about my inquiries, then it wasn’t really a lie, right?

  “Sure. You want a tour? I’m Sandy, by the way.”

  I sidestepped the introduction. “No, don’t go to any trouble. I’ve just wondered what exactly this place is. A friend told me recently it was residential. And you have twenty-four-hour staff? I just saw someone come in who looked like she was going to work.”

  “Yeah, Suzanne. Oh, and she brought a butter braid. I just heated it up. You want some?”

  “No, thanks. Is this a regular shift for her?”

  “Yep, she’s here four to noon every Monday.” Sandy took a bite of pastry. “We have a large staff, mostly home health care workers trying to get some extra work. But we have some RNs on every shift too. You say your mom is looking to move to a facility?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you. We don’t have any openings. I can put her on a waiting list, though.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it. But I’m curious about that lady I saw come in just now. You say she comes in every Monday at this time?”

  “Never misses.”

  “Never?”

  “Not in the three years I’ve been here. She’s as dependable as the day is long. Makes my job a dream. And the residents love her. She’s always bringing us books and goodies. A real sweetheart.” Sandy took another bite. “You sure you don’t want a tour? It’s no trouble. I can introduce you to Suzanne if you’d like.”

  “No, I won’t bother you anymore. If there’s no room, there’s no room. Thanks anyway.”

  As I drove home, I knew Suzanne’s alibi was not airtight, but it was tighter than many of the other suspects. Why was Detective Campbell so convinced of her guilt? My gut told me she wasn’t Melinda’s killer. Why didn’t his?

  Twenty-Four

  AmyJo flung open my door as soon as I reached it. She grabbed my sleeve and yanked me inside. When I regained my balance she pointed at the clock. “In four minutes I was going to call 911.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to leave you a note.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Almost as soon as we got home, Suzanne left again so I followed her.” I told AmyJo the rest of the story. I finished with, “I know she didn’t do it. I’m crossing her off my list for good. I don’t care what Detective Campbell says.”

  “But he’s the one who gets to say.”

  “I know. So the only way I can keep Suzanne from going away for a very long time is to find the real killer.”

  “Who’s left on the list? Go one by one and let’s talk it through.”

  I crossed to the table and picked up the notepad. “Melinda.”

  “No way. Nobody kills themself like that.”

  I nodded and sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been avoiding crossing her off because if she killed herself, then nobody I know is a murderer.” I put a line through Melinda’s name as well as Suzanne’s.

  “Next.”

  “Melinda’s husband, Henry.”

  AmyJo stared at a spot over my shoulder. “Don’t you think if there was a whiff of guilt with Henry, the police would be all over him?”

  “Yeah, but still, he has a pretty strong motive. I didn’t think so until I went over there and he was all ready to step into Melinda’s business. In less than two days he’d brought himself up to speed on all her clients.”

  “Maybe he’d always been involved in the agency.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And doesn’t he run a successful business himself?”

  “Seems like it. But maybe he ran up a ton of gambling debts or has a drug problem or spent a fortune on strippers.”

  “Don’t you think the police would have found all that out by now?”

  I nodded, glumly. “But if it can’t be Melinda killing herself, I want it to be him. Everyone else is a friend of mine.”

  “I know.” AmyJo was quiet a moment. “Plus, you said yourself that Detective Campbell was apparently taking the easiest path. Seems like the husband would be way easier than Suzanne. I’ve gotta believe they don’t have anything on Henry.” She gestured at the list. “Who’s next?”

  “Kell, of course.” I checked the time. “In a couple hours I can try to catch his secretary and verify his alibi, before she gets busy.” I looked at AmyJo and pursed my lips. “The only others are Heinrich and Einstein.”

  “I already told you what I think about Einstein. And Heinrich has that thing with your brother.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I can’t think straight. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m going to sleep until dinnertime.”

  “You can’t. It’s Monday … critique group day.”

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “You have to. It’ll give you an opportunity to cross off Heinrich, Kell, and Einstein. Maybe.”

  I knew she was right, but that didn’t make me any more excited about going. How long had it been since I’d pulled all-nighters? A million years?

  “Fine. But I’m taking a nap till it’s time to go.”

  AmyJo grabbed my phone and set an alarm. “I turned the volume all the way up. No excuses.”

  “Yes, Mom.” I ushered her out the door. “See you there.”

  •

  Two and a half hours later the alarm blared, causing me to launch myself out of bed and flail around the room searching for it. I finally found it propped against my jewelry box where AmyJo left it.

  I wasn’t rested but I was standing, so I stepped into the shower, where I do my best thinking. I planned how I’d phrase my question about Kell’s alibi. I preferred to cross him off before the meeting, if at all possible.

  After making coffee and a piece of toast, I looked online for the flights Kell could have taken: one departing sometime after the fundraiser at the zoo Sunday night, the other returning early Monday morning, the day of Melinda’s murder. Then I dialed his corporate phone number. I sat at my kitchen table and asked the receptionist to put me through to his office. Instead of using my name, I tried something different this time.

  It worked, because instead of the receptionist taking my name and message again, Kell’s private secretary answered. “Kell Mooney’s office.”

  I crossed my fingers, hoping I’d remembered the right airline. “I’m calling on behalf of National Airlines. We found a Rolex watch on a recent flight and are checking with all of o
ur first-class passengers to see if they’ve lost one.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Mooney isn’t in right now.”

  I gave her the flight information for the Monday morning flight. “Can you confirm he was on that particular flight? If not, then I don’t need to bother him.”

  “Let me check.”

  While I listened to the hold music, I noticed my tremor was in perfect syncopation with the tune.

  The secretary came back. “Yes, he was on that flight.”

  I took another wild stab. “That’s good to hear, but I’m a bit confused, looking at this paperwork. I show that his flight from Denver to Chicago was just six hours earlier. Surely that’s incorrect?”

  She paused, then said, “No, that’s right. He was escorting a minor child.”

  I loudly shuffled papers. “I don’t see a second passenger on his itinerary.”

  “The child’s mother bought the ticket.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It was a spring break trip for the girl to visit her dad in Chicago.” The secretary’s voice took on a softness. “The mother couldn’t take her there because at the last minute Mr. Mooney needed her in London for the company. He felt bad, so he escorted the daughter to Chicago, then flew right home. Never even left the airport. The things he does for his employees. Should I have him call you about the watch?”

  “Only if he wants to claim it.” I hung up without giving her any contact information. Let her think I was incompetent. But at least I’d been able to confirm Kell’s alibi, cross him off my suspect list, and be reminded of what a nice guy he was.

  It made it the teensiest bit easier to make the decision to attend my writing group. I bundled my coat around me.

  The complex’s parking lot was busy at this time on a Monday morning, with all the upwardly mobile young professionals on their way to their upwardly mobile careers. Cars moved in and out of parking spaces, half of them sweeping headlights across the lot, half of them dark. That’s what overcast March mornings are like in Colorado. Never quite sure when daylight is.

  My fellow residents and I cautiously picked our way over icy spots and snow drifts. With as much snow as we’d had Saturday night, no matter how fastidiously walks got shoveled and parking lots got plowed, no one could get it all. The unlucky commuters without covered spots had to scrape ice from windshields and push off flawless mounds of snow that added almost a foot of height to their cars. They also had to excavate the drifts packed against their tires. As was the habit of most people who lived in snowy climes, nobody thought to allow extra time to do this. There is nothing more karmic—or dangerous—than commuters in a rush who fail to clear the snow from the roof of their car, only to stop suddenly and have it all slide forward onto the windshield, blinding them.