Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  "Excuse us," Carlotta said. She and Hannah turned and claimed a pew equidistant between Salyers and the back of the room.

  God help her, but Jolie looked at Sammy and immediately pondered the woman's motivation. Did she feel obligated to attend because the body had been found in her house? Had she been fooling around with Gary behind Jolie's back and developed genuine feelings for him? Or was she here simply to give out business cards? (A tactless trick of the real estate trade.)

  Sammy stopped in front of Jolie and after an awkward hesitation, leaned forward to give her a stiff one-armed hug. "I'm really sorry about Gary," she said, and she sounded as if she meant it.

  Jolie felt unexpectedly misty. Was it possible that she and Sammy had simply fallen into a habit of disliking each other? She hadn't exactly behaved well herself, sneaking into the woman's house, ransacking her bathroom, filching a photo frame, then bringing the party to a screeching halt. She was touched that Sammy seemed to be extending an olive branch. "Thank you for coming, Sammy."

  Sammy's expression was pinched with compassion. "I wouldn't have missed it." She linked her arm in Jolie's and stared down at Gary. "So young, so handsome, such a tragedy."

  Jolie nodded, biting into her lip.

  Sammy patted her arm. "Jolie, I have a little confession to make."

  At the sound of Sammy's "cajoling" voice, a red flag raised in Jolie's mind. "Confession?"

  Sammy looked contrite. "Gary called me at the office a little while after you all started seeing each other and asked me to broker a deal. He wanted to buy a condo that he'd been renting for a couple of years." She gave a little laugh. "He said it was going to be a surprise and he didn't want you to know about it, but he wanted you to get the commission for the sale."

  Her stomach gurgled. "So you forged my name on the contract?"

  She nodded and winced. "And that was wrong, but Gary was adamant that he wanted you to have the money." She lifted her manicured hands in the air. "I thought he was getting ready to propose and that the two of you would live there. Since I couldn't cut you a commission check without you knowing the source, I tried to give you the money in little spurts, but you simply wouldn't take it."

  Jolie wet her lips. "That's why you were trying to give me money Saturday morning?"

  "Yes. I felt terrible that you'd left the agency before I could get you to take it." She laid her ice-cold hand over Jolie's—or maybe it only felt cold because her wounded hand felt feverish. "Jolie, I just wanted you to know the entire story from my point of view."

  "In case anyone asks me?"

  The woman's smile was poignant. "Yes."

  Salyers had been asking questions about the property—was Sammy telling the truth, or covering her tracks? Jolie gave her a noncommittal smile. "I appreciate your concern. And about the money that was taken at the party—"

  "It's forgotten," Sammy said emphatically. "It's just money, and it was recovered. This memorial service is a good reminder that life is short, and we can't be consumed by material things."

  Said the woman with a room in her home dedicated to crystal dollhouses.

  But with her own emotional receptors misfiring, Jolie couldn't decide if the woman was a big fraud, or if kindness was just so foreign to Sammy that she hadn't gotten the knack of it yet.

  The funeral director, a pear-shaped, slump-shouldered man with glasses on the tip of his nose, walked into the doorway and signaled that it was time for the service to begin. Sammy patted Jolie's hand, then settled herself in a back pew.

  Jolie conjured up a smile for the handful who had gathered for the service and lowered herself to the front pew. The funeral director meandered to the front of the room and flipped a switch. Organ music wafted in from the speakers—a sickly sweet melody meant to wring the emotion out of the most stoic observer.

  A cell phone rang, piercing the mood. Jolie pivoted her head to see Detective Salyers reaching into her pocket and ducking out of the pew. She hurried out of the room, and Jolie couldn't be irritated. The woman had come because of her and had other emergencies to attend.

  The song finished playing and another song began, this one more mournful than the last. When she looked at Gary's chalky profile, she was overwhelmed with helplessness, assailed with thoughts that things might have ended differently if she'd simply started the car and driven off while he was in the backseat.

  Another cell phone rang, and Jolie turned her head to see Sammy jump up and run out, reaching into her purse. Another lead, another sale. Jolie couldn't figure out Sammy, but deep down, she thought the woman was too dim to be truly dangerous.

  She looked back to the casket and sighed. What-ifs plagued her and she felt torn because she didn't entirely trust Gary. Had he been sleeping with Sammy? Had he been sleeping with Janet LeMon? Selling cocaine to the men who used the condo as their getaway? All of those things were hard to reconcile to the gentle, laughing man she'd known, but what if Gary had only let her see the side of him he wanted to reveal? Was that why he hadn't wanted her to meet his friends, so she wouldn't see the smarmy side?

  At the end of the second song, the funeral director made his way to the front of the chapel to a small podium and began to read the seventy-five-word obituary he'd asked her to write. "Gary Hogan—"

  "Hagan," Jolie corrected.

  He squinted over the podium at her. "Huh?"

  "It's 'Hagan,' with an 'a.'"

  He pointed to the paper. "This says 'Hogan.'"

  Another cell phone rang. Jolie turned her head to see Hannah sidling out with her phone to her ear. Jolie turned back with a sigh. "Trust me—it's 'Hagan.'"

  "Okay." He cleared his throat, then started again. "Gary Hagan was on this earth thirty-six short years. Born in Germany to a U.S. airman, Gary lived the life of a soldier's son."

  Another cell phone rang and Jolie turned to frown at Carlotta, who mouthed, "I'm sorry, I have to get this," and ran out of the room.

  The funeral director looked around the room, then looked back to Jolie. "Do you want me to finish?"

  "Yes." She'd spent hours on that obituary, hoping to come up with seventy-five words that would have pleased Gary, if he were within earshot. She wanted them to be heard. "And then I'd like another song, please."

  He looked over his glasses at her. "You only paid for two songs."

  "Bill me."

  "Okay." He looked back to the sheet of paper. "Where did I leave off? Let's see, Gary Hagan, blah, blah, blah, soldier's son. Ah, here we are: More than anything, Gary liked to make people laugh. He was known as a person who could make things happen. He loved sports, especially the Braves. He was preceded in death by his beloved parents, Alvin and Polly Hagan. He is succeeded by an army of friends." The man glanced over his glasses at the empty chapel, then looked back down. "Then it says here 'Magic of thinking big.'" He squinted at Jolie. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

  "It was his favorite book," she said wistfully. "And I only had four words left."

  The man looked at her as if she were a kook. "Here's your extra song." He flipped the switch, then lumbered back down the aisle.

  Jolie sat perfectly still while the song played—it was the first song again, but she didn't care. She sat unmoving until the vibrations of the last note had died, then pushed to her feet and walked to Gary's casket. She broke off one of the white roses from the casket spray and tucked it inside his jacket pocket.

  "Gary," she murmured, "I'll bet when you got to the Pearly Gates, you had Braves tickets for St. Peter." She smiled, then bit into her lip. "I want you to know that I'm going to try to figure all this out. I don't know what's going to happen, but I know I was never this brave before, so thank you." She inhaled deeply, bringing the scent of live flowers into her lungs, then exhaled and turned to leave.

  A movement in the empty chapel caught her attention. Beck. He was sitting on a rear pew, wearing a suit and tie and a solemn expression.

  She stopped, shot through with anger, remorse, shame. Her only solace
was in the fact that he didn't know how much he'd trampled her heart—and why would he even guess that he had in such a few short days? It wouldn't make sense, so she was safe from that ultimate humiliation at least.

  He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, and Jolie realized that eventually, she was going to have to move forward. She walked toward him and he stepped out into the aisle.

  "I got here a little late," he said, his tone apologetic.

  "Thank you for coming anyway," she said. "Detective Salyers was here, and Carlotta and Hannah. Oh, and Sammy."

  "She left a stack of business cards by the guest book."

  "Sounds like Sammy."

  An awkward pause followed. Beck scratched his temple. "I, uh, was hoping we could talk."

  She angled her head. "About the fact that your sister is in the photo I showed to you? And that you deliberately concealed information that might have helped me in some way?"

  He nodded, pressing his lips together. "You're right, I did conceal that information from you, and I hope you can forgive me for wanting to protect my sister. But I didn't keep the information from the police."

  She blinked. "You didn't?"

  He shook his head. "When I left your place Sunday morning, I picked up Della and we went to talk to Detective Salyers. I convinced Della it would be better if the police knew everything."

  "What's everything?"

  He sighed. "My sister has been in love with Roger LeMon most of her adult life. I don't understand it, but she's blind to the fact that he's not a good guy. They were on and off, on and off. Even after he married Janet, LeMon still called Della. She wouldn't have anything to do with him, but I knew she was still crazy about him."

  "I feel for your sister," Jolie said, "but wouldn't that make her a suspect in Janet LeMon's murder?"

  "It might," he admitted. "Except Della was in a psychiatric clinic in Vermont all summer, up until I got back in town a couple of weeks ago."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah," he said. "As you can imagine, that's not the kind of thing Della wants everyone to know, especially since she seems to finally be getting back on her feet. So..." He gave her a little smile. "I just wanted to apologize and let you know that Pam is willing to take your case again."

  She shook her head. "Thanks, but...no thanks."

  "So you won't accept my help."

  Her heart thrashed in her chest like a wounded bird. "No. There are just too many complications—your name, your sister. You're my alibi at the party. How's that going to look to a jury if you're also paying for my attorney and—"

  He lifted an eyebrow. "Sleeping with you? Not good. You're right, of course."

  Jolie exhaled. The day was catching up with her. "Look, Beck, I've had a long day, and something tells me that tomorrow is going to be even longer. So if you don't mind—"

  "Where are you staying?"

  "At my neighbor's. She's out of town and said I could use her apartment for a few days."

  "Let me get you a hotel room."

  With him in it? "No, thank you. Good night."

  He reached out to clasp her arm. "Jolie, I can make things easier for you."

  Anger blazed through her. "Do you think I'm blind, Beck? I know what I am to you—I'm a project. I'm a 'before.' I'm the damsel in distress that you can swoop in to save and feel good about yourself for a while. Until you get bored and start looking for a new project, or decide to go back to Costa Rica." She pulled away from him "Go find another charity case."

  She sidestepped him, marched out of the funeral chapel, and unlocked the door of her pitiful rental car. She climbed in and started the engine, then looked heavenward. "God, I'm broke, barely employed, a suspect in two murders, I drive a ramshackle car, and the man I love might as well be living in your galaxy. Please let this be a low point. Send me a sign." She leaned forward, looking for shooting stars, a burning bush, a two-headed goat...something.

  And she got nothing.

  On the drive to the apartment complex she hummed to music on the radio to keep her mind occupied...off Gary...off Beck...off jail. It was just before 8 P.M. when she pulled into the parking lot.

  Residents had already decorated for Halloween, putting lighted jack-o'-lanterns in their windows and corn fodder shocks in the common areas. Her hand felt warm and tight beneath the bandage. Maybe Beck was right—maybe it was infected.

  Beck.

  She worked her mouth from side to side, conceding it would probably take some time to get out of the habit of thinking about him.

  She drove past Leann's apartment to check her own mailbox. After a couple of days, it probably would be full. She parked and walked to the bank of mailboxes, looking right and left, ever aware of her surroundings. Fatigue pulled at her lower back—the shoe department had been busier than usual today.

  The night air was cool—in the forties, she guessed. And so cloudless, the stars took her breath away. A rustling noise behind the boxes also took her breath away, until she realized it was the dry husks of the corn fodder shocks rubbing together. Still, she didn't dawdle checking the mail. As suspected, her box was full—one reason was because Mrs. Janklo's bank checks had been delivered to her by mistake. She looked up at the woman's window and noted that the lights were on. If she knew Mrs. Janklo, she'd be looking for these checks and worried that they hadn't arrived.

  Jolie heaved a sigh and opted for the elevator over the stairs. A couple of minutes later, she was ringing Mrs. Janklo's doorbell. She stood in front of the peephole and waved. "It's Jolie, Mrs. Janklo—I have your checks."

  The door opened and Mrs. Janklo squinted at her through the chain. "What do you want?"

  "Here are your checks," she said cheerfully. "The mail carrier put them in my box by mistake."

  The woman's plump hand appeared in the six-inch opening and Jolie gave her the box. "Thank you," her neighbor said begrudgingly.

  "You're welcome. Good night."

  "Wait, I have something for you." The door closed.

  Jolie tried to smile. Mrs. Janklo was famous for her frozen zucchini bread wrapped in layers and layers of aluminum foil. It was god-awful, and Jolie had lost a toenail last year when she'd dropped one on her foot.

  The door opened and Mrs. Janklo's disposition seemed much improved. "Here you go—some nice zucchini bread. It'll need to thaw for about three hours."

  Jolie juggled her mail and took the icy brick, which actually felt good against her injured hand. "Thank you, Mrs. Janklo."

  "And here's something for you that was put in my mailbox by mistake...a few days ago." She extended a lumpy, padded manila envelope.

  Jolie frowned. "When did you say it arrived?"

  "One day last week," the woman snapped. "I'm a little forgetful these days." She slammed the door.

  But Jolie barely noticed because she recognized the handwriting on the return address: Gary's. Her heart beat wildly. This was the envelope he feared "they" had intercepted. He couldn't have known that in this instance, "they" were a nearsighted mail carrier and her nosy, forgetful neighbor.

  She raced down the stairs and decided it would be faster to step inside her own apartment to examine the envelope. With a bum left hand and a right hand that shook from excitement, it took her a few seconds longer to unlock the door and the deadbolt. Just as she turned the doorknob, a man's gloved hand clamped over her mouth from behind.

  Jolie's cry died against his hand. Terror bolted through her as he shoved his body against her back, his mouth to her ear. "Welcome home."

  At the sound of Roger LeMon's voice, she almost lost control of her bladder. His fingers covered her nose too, so she was bucking to breathe. The door opened in front of her and he pushed her inside, sending her sprawling in the darkness against the gray carpet, which was much harder than she'd ever imagined. Everything in her arms scattered and rolled. The front door slammed closed and she heard him fumbling with the deadbolt. Precious time, and she knew her way around in the dark. She pushed herself up and ran for the be
droom. LeMon abandoned the door and lunged after her. He caught her by the arm, pulled her to him, and covered her mouth again.

  "Time to die," he growled in her ear, dragging her backward. "After your boyfriend's memorial service, you couldn't live with yourself anymore. You left a note on your computer about the little love triangle between you and Gary and my wife, about how Gary killed my wife, then how you killed him."

  She fought him furiously, struggling left, then right.

  "It's not going to hurt, you'll be out from the sleeping pills when I slash your wrists."

  He released her mouth for a second and when she gasped for air, he shoved capsules into her mouth. She clamped down, refusing to swallow, her screams fading into grunts. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Would anyone question her death? Leann...Carlotta...Salyers...Beck? He had offered her a safe, secure place to sleep and she'd thrown it in his face. She gagged as the bitter powder from the broken capsules began to dissolve in her mouth.

  She heard a loud boom, the distant sound of wood splintering. "Jolie! Jolie!" a voice shouted.

  Beck?

  Suddenly LeMon released her. She fell to her knees, gagging, spitting out the capsules, pulling them out with her fingers. Gasping, she dragged herself up a wall and slapped at the light switch. The two men were crashing against walls, floors. Beck had the bulk, but LeMon, to her horror, had a blade. Beck's shirt was cut and he was bleeding. Jolie was terrified at the thought of him losing his life because of her. She frantically searched for a weapon. She remembered the fire extinguisher in the bedroom, and then she spied the great frozen zucchini brick at her feet. She hefted it, rushed forward, and brought it down on the back of LeMon's head. The sound of frozen bread connecting with flesh was...satisfying, actually.

  LeMon dropped like a stone, his knife clattering to the floor.

  Beck was at her side in two strides. He cupped his hands around her face. "Are you all right?" he demanded, his voice rasping.

  She nodded, then burst into tears. Third time and counting.