Fiction Can Be Murder

by Becky Clark

“I never said my kids were dead. But because of the shoddy way your dad handled the investigation, he may as well have.”

  I narrowed my eyes and lowered my voice, keeping the rolling chair between us. “You tell me what happened in that parking lot.” If

  I was going to die, I was going to die knowing the truth. “Everything.”

  She laughed again. “Sure. You want to know? I’ll tell you. My husband was Hal Hollingsway. Ring a bell?”

  The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Until she started humming a tune that I recognized as an advertising jingle. “He was that car guy?”

  “Owned dealerships, Executive Director of the Chamber of Commerce, on the school board—”

  “I interviewed him for my school paper in middle school.”

  “So you did.”

  I frowned. “He wasn’t married. Didn’t have kids. I remember. I asked.” I tried to conjure memories of how this might tie in to my dad back at that time.

  Sheelah kept one hand behind her back and put a finger to her grinning lips. “Nobody knew. Nobody knew a lot of things. Like how we made a fortune from runaways.”

  “You were a pimp?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That’s such a vulgar term. Like ‘white slaver.’ So ugly. I’ve always preferred ‘human trafficker.’”

  I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. “You were a human trafficker?”

  “I was the human trafficker.” She straightened her posture and smiled. “I was the brains behind the business. Hal was the well-respected frontman. Together we built a huge empire.” Her smile vanished. “Until your dad came along and turned that snitch on us. We flipped him back, but then everything went sideways when he grabbed your dad’s gun. He even took himself out. My one consolation all these years was that nobody knew he’d been your dad’s informant. With the two of them dead, all the suspicion was on your dad. He was in street clothes, dead next to a known criminal and a fine upstanding citizen, his own gun the weapon that killed them all. Everything pointed to him being a dirty cop. I couldn’t have staged it any better.”

  Memories of the day my dad died flooded my sense. The smell of charred hot dogs. Cancelled Fourth of July plans as day turned to night, still no Dad. Melted peach ice cream. Another event ruined because Dad had put his job before his family. He loved his job, even when it meant he let us down. But he was a good cop, a conscientious one. “He wasn’t dirty.”

  “Facts don’t matter. Perception matters.” Sheelah regarded me with pity, dripping in superiority. “You said yourself there were whispers and innuendo and his fellow officers were forced to attend his funeral while they covered it all up.”

  My head felt like it might burst. What did I really know about my dad or myself or that day or Sheelah? “So by framing me for killing Melinda, you, what, bring your kids and husband back to life?”

  “My kids aren’t dead,” she snapped. “After Hal died—was murdered—we lost everything. I couldn’t get at the money. I had to abandon the kids at a church, change my name, change my life. I’ll never see them again.”

  “Ironic, since that’s what you did to other people’s children.”

  A guttural roar exploded from deep inside her. Sheelah hurtled forward, thrusting the pickle jar she held behind her back toward me.

  I leaped back, keeping the rolling chair between us.

  She unscrewed the lid. There were no pickles. My eyes darted between her face and the jar—I tried to see what was in it but needed to keep aware of her movements as we performed this tango. We were in the middle of her living room. The only thing between me and the front door was a leather recliner. The sun glinted off the contents of the jar.

  My stomach turned to jelly and I quivered, releasing the rolling chair and drawing my arms around myself protectively. “Sheelah! Is that … mercury?”

  I didn’t want to lose what was left of my cool, but events were conspiring against me. I turned into a human windmill trying to get away from her. I shoved the wheeled chair toward her as hard as I could. She sidestepped it, lunging toward me. My elbow hit the jar. The open jar flew into the air and turned end over end, silvery blobs of mercury in a contrail behind it. The mercury landed on the carpet three feet from the recliner. The small beads oozed back together, forming a large blob.

  “Don’t step in that, Sheelah.” I maneuvered around the recliner. “If that blob turns into tiny beads, it’ll contaminate your carpet and make us both sick.”

  “Don’t you think I already know that?” She scowled at me from the opposite side of the recliner.

  I knew the room was big and well-ventilated, so if the blob stayed big, with less surface area than a bunch of small beads, everything should be okay. I tried to sidestep the mercury and keep Sheelah talking in order to divert her attention. I continued to edge toward the door.

  “You really killed Melinda?” I knew in my head that it had to be true, but it wasn’t really sinking in despite the circumstances.

  “What do you think?” Sheelah screamed, face turning purple, shaking the pickle jar lid at me. She was done bragging and explaining. Now she was beyond reason, completely out of control. A different person than the one I knew. Thought I knew.

  By now I’d backed all the way to the front door, Sheelah matching me step for step, less than a foot away. The mercury was still in a big blob about four feet behind her. I reached back and grappled for the knob.

  Sheelah’s eyes followed my hand. Trying distraction again, I said, “Why did we go to the movies yesterday? You seemed so … so normal.”

  “I had other plans for us until you invited that simp to join us.”

  “I thought you wanted to ruin me, not kill me.”

  She smiled like a jack-o’-lantern. “Death by a thousand cuts. Drive you crazy.”

  My hand froze against the door. “You made the footprints under my window. You drove those SUVs. You rammed me behind the movie theater.”

  “God, you’re such an idiot. Why would I dirty my hands like that? I was powerful—am powerful. People still owe me favors.” She cackled and wistfully closed her eyes, as if recalling an enchanting memory. “Ruining your brother’s career was a—”

  With her eyes closed, I took the opportunity to yank the door open. But she was still quicker. She slammed it shut again with an open palm. I ducked under her arm. She grabbed at me as I squeaked by her, dodging and weaving just out of her grasp. She let out another roar and dove after me. Her tackle landed me face first with a loud “Ooof!” as the wind was knocked out of me.

  I struggled for breath, crawling and kicking away from her.

  She held tight to my ankle, dragging me backward. I grabbed for a handhold on the recliner, finding the lever for the footrest. I held tight.

  Sheelah’s fury seemed to give her super-human strength. She dragged me and the recliner toward the mercury blob. I lost my grip on the chair and flew into the pile of mercury, scattering it in a shower of tiny, deadlier beads. My chest heaved. She scrambled on top of me, sitting on my low back, her knees restraining my arms. She pushed my face into the mercury.

  The vapor was in my nose. I tasted metal in my mouth, felt it constricting my lungs. I was dizzy. Sheelah was screaming nonsense.

  I summoned all my strength and rolled over, pinning her to the floor. I twisted her head to the side so she felt the effects of the mercury. She tried to shake me off, bucking her body from side to side. I needed to keep her near the mercury while keeping myself away from it. If she was weaker and quit fighting me, I could get us both outside to fresh air and safety. My dizziness was getting worse. I began to doubt I could drag myself across the room and out the door, let alone both of us.

  Suddenly she quit bucking. Her mouth went slack.

  “Sheelah!” I planted my feet on either side of her and yanked her arms. Dead weight. I squatted and lifted her un
der her arms. The room spun. My vision narrowed to a pinhole. I wasn’t sure where the door was. But I kept dragging her backward, away from the mercury, until I ran into the wall.

  My reduced vision swam through a prism of gray and black waves. I felt for the door, knowing that if it was more than arms distance, Sheelah and I would not make it out of this room alive. I couldn’t hold her any longer and felt her thud at my feet.

  I slapped and banged my hands blindly on the surfaces around me. The knob. I turned it and immediately felt the cool outside air clear my senses a bit. My vision slowly opened up and I saw Sheelah on the floor, ashen, lips blue. I grabbed her arms and pulled her down the two concrete steps leading to the snowy front yard. Right into the amazed face of a woman out walking her dog.

  “Call 911,” I gasped.

  Twenty-Eight

  Lance screamed up in his patrol car while I sat wrapped in a blanket in the back of an ambulance. I wanted to go back into Sheelah’s house to get my bag, but the hazmat crew wouldn’t let me.

  Lance raced over, holding his phone to his ear, nodding. When he reached me, he said, “She’s right here, Mom. She’s fine.”

  He held the phone out to me. Tears transformed the scene in Sheelah’s yard to a hazy blur when I heard my mother’s voice. “Bug, are you really okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” I swiped at my eyes, trying to remain calm and controlled so she would too. “Little shook up, but the EMTs checked me out and said I’m fine. And now Lance is here, too. I’m fine.” I didn’t want to lose my composure or scare her, so I said, “They want to talk to me some more. I’ll call you later.”

  “I love you, Bug.”

  “Love you too, Mom.” I handed the phone back to Lance. “Thanks for calling her.”

  “I called as soon as I heard. How are you?” He turned to the EMTs. “How is she?”

  “She’ll be fine. Not too much exposure, no prolonged direct contact, and the ventilation was pretty good.”

  Lance nodded, lips pursed. “And the perp?”

  I preempted the EMT’s diagnosis. “She’ll be fine too. When they had her on the gurney she summoned the strength to say to me, ‘I’d tell you to go to hell but I never want to see you again.’ Pretty cogent, if you ask me. And a sentiment I share, by the way.”

  The EMT chuckled. “Yeah, she’ll be a handful in jail.”

  “Campbell and Ming here?” Lance glanced around the scene in Sheelah’s front yard, looking for the detectives. Neighbors, cops, medical personnel, hazmat guys, all standing around in clusters. But not Campbell and Ming.

  “On their way, apparently. Can I borrow your phone? I need to call Ozzi.”

  Lance handed it over.

  I punched in the number and burst into tears the minute I heard Ozzi’s voice. Damn. And I’d been holding it together so well. I returned the phone to Lance and he filled Ozzi in while I tried to rein in my emotions. Then he pocketed the phone and said, “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “He works twenty minutes away.”

  “Speed limit’s just a suggestion some days.”

  “Call him back and tell him to be careful,” I sniffled.

  Lance crossed his arms and smirked. “Riiight.”

  Detectives Campbell and Ming walked up behind Lance and he stepped aside, but he stayed close. Campbell whipped out his notepad. “Tell us everything.”

  “You mean starting with how I told you Suzanne didn’t do it?”

  Lance made a noise I couldn’t decode. It was either a warning or a choked-back laugh. Probably both. But I was right, plus I was recovering in an ambulance, so I got special dispensation to say I told you so.

  Ming winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Point taken.”

  “So you know she was innocent.”

  “She’s not stupid, Ms. Russo,” Detective Campbell said. “Her attorney met us at the station and she confessed to the breaking and entering. She was off the hook for the murder as soon as we checked in with the owners of Espresso Yourself.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his head, leveling a glare at me. “You, on the other hand, lied to us about your whereabouts that night.”

  “Only to save Suzanne from being railroaded by you. You were—”

  Ming interrupted. “Stand down, both of you. We follow leads no matter where they take us. Some take us further afield than we’d like. But under the circumstances”—he cut his eyes at Campbell—“no charges will be filed against you. And Ms. Medina will be fine. Espresso Yourself isn’t pressing charges if she’ll come work for them to organize inventory and help upgrade their security. Now tell us exactly what happened here.”

  Relieved for Suzanne, and myself, I recounted the day’s events. They took notes, asked clarifying questions, and made lots of mm-hmm noises.

  Behind them, I saw Ozzi’s Prius pull up, blocking in Lance’s police car. He jumped out and, without closing the car door, raced across Sheelah’s lawn.

  The detectives must have seen my face because they both turned to see what had captured my attention. They parted as I leaped out of the ambulance, throwing the blanket to the EMT inside. Ozzi caught me in his arms and held me while I sobbed. I cried for Melinda, I cried for Sheelah, I cried for my dad, I cried for all the hurt and anger and stress I’d caused and received over the past week.

  “Shhh. It’s over. It’s all over,” Ozzi whispered, nuzzling my neck. “Everything’s fine.”

  I took a deep, shuddery breath and kissed him, soft at first, then hard and hungry. I turned toward the detectives and EMTs who were pretending not to stare at us. “Can I go?”

  Campbell looked at Ming, who nodded. Then they both looked at the EMTs. “Yeah, she’s fine,” the medic said. “Take it easy, though, and call the hospital if anything changes.”

  I snorted. Everything had already changed.

  Twenty-Nine

  The next Monday at critique group, I bumped into Kell’s driveway five minutes late. I thought I’d allowed myself plenty of time to drink my coffee in the parking lot where my dad was killed and still get to the meeting on time. But I sat too long, staring at the blood stain that had long ago disappeared while considering my reputation, which he’d worried so much about even when I was just a teenager. He was right, of course—all you really had was your reputation.

  Melinda Walter would always be remembered as a ruthless bitch. Unless she was remembered for her philanthropy.

  Sheelah would always be remembered as a murderer. Unless she was remembered for her skills as a book doctor.

  Dad will be remembered for single-handedly dismantling a human trafficking ring. Unless he’s remembered for going rogue, not following protocol, and getting himself, his informant, and a local businessman killed.

  And me? What will I be remembered for, Dad? I couldn’t even imagine.

  Kell’s valet hurried toward me when I pulled up and helped me with the huge balloon bouquet in my backseat. I carried it into the library where my entire group, sans Sheelah, was gathered.

  Near the buffet, Kell and Cordelia chatted and sipped from china cups. AmyJo, Jenica, and Einstein sat at the enormous table enjoying breakfast. Heinrich filled his plate at the buffet.

  They all turned when I walked in and went to arrange the balloons in the center of the table. Puzzled looks crossed their faces.

  Jenica gestured at the bouquet with her fork. “Who made a sale this week?”

  “Nobody. These are apology balloons. I’m sorry for suspecting, um, all of you for killing Melinda.”

  Kell set down his cup and hugged me. “Don’t be silly. We would have done the same thing in your place. I guess we all could have been a bit more forthcoming.”

  “You think?” I asked with a sarcastic smirk.

  AmyJo nodded emphatically. “And we thought you might have killed her, too.” Nobody spoke. “C’mon. It crossed your minds
.”

  They all looked from one face to the other.

  Cordelia broke the silence first. “Okay, fine. It crossed my mind.”

  “Me too.” Jenica said.

  “Me three.”

  “Same here.”

  “Ja.”

  I laughed. “Good to know. But in all seriousness, I’m not completely at peace with my thought process or behavior.”

  Cordelia placed one hand on my forearm. “But everything turned out for the best.”

  “Fill your plate, Charlee.” Kell waved an arm over the buffet table.

  I dropped my messenger bag and filled a plate with scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and raspberry Danish. Heinrich placed a cup of coffee in front of me. As he set it down, he kissed me on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” I asked, tilting my head.

  He winked at me. “Just felt like it, liebling.”

  I pointed a piece of bacon across the table. “I still have a question, though, Jenica. Why did you lie about volunteering at the hospital?”

  She straightened her spiked collar. “Ruins my image. Plus, Dooley’s parents hate me but I still want to visit his little sister whenever her asthma flares up and she gets admitted. So I just take off my Goth and hide in plain sight.”

  “That’s exactly what Sheelah did,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stay on the right side of the law, ma’am.”

  “See that you do. I don’t want to investigate my friends for murder ever again.” I folded the bacon into my mouth.

  AmyJo asked, “So Sheelah was the one feeding info to the reporter?”

  I nodded, my mouth full.

  Einstein asked, “Why didn’t the police check Sheelah’s alibi and figure out she wasn’t where she said she was?”

  “According to Lance, they did check. She really did have an appointment for her fake emergency but she convinced the receptionist an ex-husband was stalking her and she had to cancel it. Told an epic story about the ex tracking her everywhere and using all kinds of impersonations—”