Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  He looked stricken. "God, this is just awful."

  "I know," she said, then felt compelled to pat his arm. "But hopefully the police will have some answers soon."

  Guy scoffed. "Sheena did it."

  Penny blinked. "Do you know something?"

  He made an exasperated sound. "What everyone else knows—that she's a gold digger and a slut."

  Penny sighed. "That may be true, but it's not against the law."

  "Oh, come on, Penny, of course she killed him," he said vehemently, his eyes wide. "Who else could it have been?"

  At his vicious tone, she pulled back slightly, suddenly uneasy—she'd never seen Guy lose his temper before. "I really don't know. Sheena is a likely suspect, but I'm sure a lot of people think that about me."

  He pulled his hand down his mouth, then nodded. "You look exhausted."

  She smiled. "You said that already." Then she stood. "But you're right. You and Marie have everything under control, so I think I'll head home and turn in early."

  "I'll drive you."

  "That's not necessary, Guy."

  "I'm not going to let you go out there to be hounded by voodoo weirdos and news reporters."

  The man did make sense. "Okay."

  He smiled. "See, the Ragin' Cajun isn't the only person looking out for you. I'll get my coat."

  Penny frowned as the door closed, then shook her head. She pulled out her new cell phone and punched in Liz's number, downing the rest of the juice Guy had brought her while the phone rang. She got Liz's voice mail and smiled at her friend's seductive voice. She supposed most men, like Ziggy, did find Liz intimidating.

  When the beep sounded, she assured her friend she was doing fine, then left the details of Deke's funeral and directions to Goddard's in as steady a voice as she could muster. "If you can't come, I'll understand," she said, then hung up. She looked up Wendy's number and dialed, fully expecting to leave another message, but smiled in surprise when Wendy answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Wendy, hi, it's Penny."

  "Penny?" Wendy sniffed. "How are you?"

  Penny frowned at Wendy's muffled voice. "I'm fine. Are you sick?"

  "Yeah," Wendy said, then blew her nose. "I must have picked up a flu bug."

  "I'm sorry you're not feeling well. I was calling to give you the details of Deke's f-funeral." In combination, the words were surreal: Deke's funeral. Deke's funeral. Deke's funeral...

  "Well, I'm probably not going to be able to make it," Wendy said, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry—it's these allergies."

  Penny squinted. "I thought you said you'd picked up a flu bug."

  "Right," Wendy said thickly. "It's awful. I'm so sorry, sweetie. I'll send flowers."

  "It's okay," Penny murmured, shocked at how hurt she felt. But Wendy was ill, and she probably thought since Penny and Deke were divorced, it wasn't a necessary trip. After all, Penny had pretty much denounced the man during the party, hadn't she? "I hope you feel better."

  "Thanks. I'll call you soon."

  Penny disconnected the call, thinking it was strange that Wendy hadn't asked questions about the investigation. Then she chided herself...of course Wendy wasn't concerned because she knew that Penny couldn't have murdered Deke.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Guy stuck his head in. "Ready?"

  "Yeah."

  "It's died down a little, so you should be able to make it out without a mob scene."

  She shrugged into her coat and slid past him into the showroom. Marie looked up and gave a little wave, and Penny gave her a reassuring smile. Thankfully, they made it through both rooms and to the parking lot with no incident. Dusk was falling—the street lights were already flickering. Guy unlocked and opened the door of the Lexus for her, and she slid in, sinking into the luxurious, squeaky leather.

  "This is nice," she said when he climbed in.

  "Thanks."

  She inhaled. "It still smells new."

  "Well, it's only a few months old."

  She nudged him playfully. "By the way, how do you afford a car like this on what I pay you?"

  He laughed. "I'm very frugal."

  "I'll say." She glanced around while he backed out of the parking lot, making silent comparisons to the dumpy green sedan B.J. drove. The man truly was a slob. Then her gaze caught on something in the back floorboard sticking out from under the driver seat, and her jaw loosened. "Guy—is that a gun?"

  He blanched, then he gave a nervous laugh. "It's not mine—I borrowed it from a friend." He sighed. "Okay, I guess the whole thing with Deke has got me spooked. I thought it wouldn't hurt to have some protection."

  "I thought you believed that Sheena murdered Deke."

  "I do," he said, his voice wavering.

  "So what—you think she's a serial killer?"

  He laughed. "That would make a great movie, wouldn't it?"

  Penny frowned. "Are you really scared?"

  "Aren't you?" He waved to the bustling throngs of people spilling over the sidewalks. "This kind of festival brings out the psychos, Penny. Speaking of which, who is this P.I. you're working with?"

  "I don't think B.J. is a psycho."

  "Really? How did you get hooked up with him?"

  She bristled. "He was at Caskey's. It was...a chance meeting."

  He pulled into the side street leading to her apartment and slowed. "Hm. Kind of coincidental, don't you think?"

  A warning bell sounded in the corners of her mind. "What do you mean?"

  Guy wet his thin lips. "Just be careful—something evil is in the air."

  A finger of fear tickled her neck as the car filled with a cloying tension. In the dim light, Guy looked almost...sinister. Her breath caught in her throat. Then he lunged for her, and she cried out. He reached across her to tug the door handle. Her door clicked open, then he pulled back and frowned. "Are you okay?"

  She put her hand to her throat. "You just startled me. I guess it was all that talk about...danger."

  He gave her a sad little smile. "Try to get some rest."

  She nodded. "Thanks for the ride. See you Monday."

  "Want to ride with me to the funeral?"

  "Okay." She stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, trying to shake the creepy feeling that had come over her. She watched Guy's car disappear, slowly obscured by pedestrians who seemed determined to crowd cars off the streets. She gazed out over the square, where the crowd was even larger, the scene even more uncontrolled than it had been last night.

  The people seemed to be caught up in a tangible, convulsive energy. The drummers in the batri were relentless, their pounding and beating an almost continuous noise. The costumed dancers were impossibly vigorous, some of them draped with live snakes. The purple smoke from the peristil fire seemed to hang itself on everything. The scent of eucalyptus—perhaps an attempt to cleanse the air of the stench of perspiration and animal flesh—burned her nose.

  But when she walked around the corner, the sickly sweet odor of beignets cut through everything else. She sighed and fished for her key.

  A squatty, sweaty man appeared out of nowhere, invading her personal space. "An interview for the Post, Ms. Francisco?"

  "No," she snapped, opening the door. "Leave or I'll call the police."

  "Call the police—or put the voodoo on me?"

  Penny glared at him. "Don't tempt me." She stepped into the tiny entryway and let the door slam behind her, reducing the blare of the festival noise to a muffled hum.

  If possible, the dim overhead light seemed even more faint as her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. She felt for the light switch and flipped it, praying that her landlord had replaced the bulb.

  Nothing. She groaned in frustration—Elton was going to hear about this.

  She started climbing the steps, silently cursing Guy for leaving her so spooked. Borrowing a gun—what was he thinking? And all his talk about evil in the air. He was making her imagine things. She reached the landing. Things like hearing someo
ne else's breathing in the pitch-black space.

  But when the distinct scent of male perspiration reached her, she froze, her nose flaring in fear. Someone was on the landing with her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  If something is rotten, you'll smell it...

  A SCREAM LODGED IN THE BACK of Penny's throat, but when she opened her mouth to unleash it, a large hand clamped over her lips and nose. Terror seized her, and in the space of a heartbeat, she imagined herself being thrown down the stairs or tossed inside her apartment and having her throat slit...or worse. Ravaged, then suffocated? Hacked up into little pieces and skewered?

  Her lungs pumped furiously as she tried to drag in air between the man's ironlike fingers. He moved in behind her and put his head next to her ear.

  "I'm going to let go," he murmured. "Don't scream. Okay?"

  She nodded against his hand, her mind racing. She knew that voice from somewhere.

  "It's me—Jimmy."

  Her eyes flew wide. Jimmy Scaggs? Was he a madman? A serial killer living off the land?

  Slowly he released his grip on her and she gasped for air, flattening herself against her door. "Jimmy...what...are you...doing...here?"

  A click sounded, and suddenly his shaggy face was illuminated by a flashlight. He grinned. "Did I scare you?"

  Anger overrode fear as she tried to calm her breathing. "Answer me!"

  He looked hurt. "I just wanted to talk to you is all. I went by the store, but you weren't there. I thought you'd come back here sooner or later."

  " What do you want?"

  "To say I'm sorry."

  Fear washed over her anew. "Sorry for what?"

  "That everyone thinks you killed Deke. I hate to see you in trouble, Miss Penny. Can I help?"

  Her breathing eased a bit—Jimmy's crush on her had led him here, that was all. "No, Jimmy, but thank you."

  "I'll give you an alibi," he said earnestly. "Whatever you want me to tell the police, I will. I'll cover for you."

  She wet her lips and tasted the salt from his sweaty fingers. He was offering to lie for her—just like he'd lied about seeing her push Sheena into the street. "Th-that's not necessary, Jimmy, b-but I do appreciate it."

  He looked dejected. "I'd do anything for you, Miss Penny."

  She swallowed. "I know, Jimmy. I'll let you know if I need your help."

  He brightened. "Okay. Good."

  "Okay," she said, nodding and breathing, her mind churning for something to say to get them back on familiar footing. "I still need to pay you for the truffles. I don't have the money with me, but come to the store next week...and bring more. The chef I sold them to said they were perfect." She tried to smile.

  He made a mournful noise. "Can't."

  "Why not?"

  "It's Henry—he's sick. Out of commission for a while."

  "Oh. I'm sorry—I hope he feels better soon."

  "Me, too," he said. "Bye now." Then he turned and tromped down the stairs, just as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary.

  Penny went limp with relief against her door and managed to find the keyhole with her key just as Jimmy opened the door leading to the outside and let in a bit of light. The knob twisted and she fell into her apartment, turning the dead bolt behind her even as she lunged for the nearest light switch. The fluorescent bulb over the dining table flickered and caught. Penny gasped.

  Everything was...in order. Someone had restored everything the police had displaced: The kitchen counter was clean, the drawers and cabinets were closed. The items on the dining room table were neatly arranged, the rugs were straightened. Her CDs were stacked on her TV cabinet, the magazines next to the chair were carefully fanned, the pillows on her couch were precisely positioned.

  With her heart thudding in her chest, she walked to the bedroom to find the bed made, her dresser tidy, her closet orderly. She turned in a circle, wondering who could have done such a thing. Elton? Jimmy? B.J.? Elton had a key; Jimmy was known for slipping in and out of places undetected; B.J. had studied her locks and could probably pick one as fast as he could snap his fingers.

  If the person had done it to lend a helping hand, the effect was exactly the opposite. She walked over to the dresser and opened her jewelry box, only to find her few pieces of jewelry efficiently sorted. She slid open her underwear drawer, tingling with a new sense of violation to see her panties and bras folded painstakingly. She backed away from the dresser and bumped into the bed, suddenly exhausted beyond words. With nothing on her mind except a numbing sleep, she pulled back the comforter and the cotton quilt, stopping when she saw a small, dark object against the white of her pillowcase.

  Leaning closer, recognition barbed through her—it was the little red Hot Wheels car that had been attached to the hand of the voodoo doll she had received at the party. When she'd stabbed the doll, the car had come loose and smashed to the floor, crumpling the front end. She'd lost track of what had happened to the toy, but apparently someone at the party had thought it important enough to keep—the person who had given her the doll?

  Her pulse thumped in fear. Was it a message? A promise? A threat? She considered calling B.J., but Guy's response when she told him how she'd met B.J. came back to her.

  Kind of coincidental, don't you think? Was B.J. somehow more involved in this situation than she realized? Than she wanted to believe?

  She rushed back to the door, prepared to go...where? To B.J.? To the police? Who could she trust?

  She jammed chairs under the knobs of both doors, then, too weary to think, Penny slipped off her shoes and crawled under the covers fully dressed. She buried herself as deeply into the mattress as she could. Every muscle ached, every nerve ending screamed. She didn't even have the energy to cry or to be afraid. Her eyes fluttered shut to the tune of drums and feet pounding out in the square. Evil was in the air....

  She was in the peristil, watching the masked priest dance around...except she was watching from a cage...she was a chicken...waiting to have her head removed...to be sacrificed to the celebrated lwa in order for the tribe to remain in good favor...the priest danced all around her cage...she could feel the vibration of the drums...the shimmy of the ason full of snake bones...he came closer and closer to her cage...she was paralyzed with fear...he ripped off his skeletal mask and it was Deke...he looked angry...you were too good for me, Penny...

  She jerked awake and blinked gratefully at the daylight streaming through the windows. The priest...Deke...she'd been dreaming for long, gluey hours, her nightmares going in circles, bizarre enough to disturb her, familiar enough to frighten her. She sighed and waited for the dredges of the anxiety to dissipate. But when it did, she was left with the profound ache of realization that Deke was gone...murdered. She had thought she'd known what being alone was when they had first separated. But then the aloneness of being separated had been topped by the aloneness of being divorced. And now the aloneness of being divorced had been trumped by the aloneness of being survived in death.

  You were too good for me, Penny...

  She closed her eyes and conjured up the image of Deke's face, the exact intonation of his voice when he had uttered those words...the last words he would ever speak to her...as if he'd been trying to make amends.

  Her eyes popped open. Had Deke known then that he was in trouble? Had he feared for his life? Is that why he had said those words to her at such a bizarre place and time?

  She sat up, then grimaced when an ache erupted in her head. Her face felt slick and crackly...glazed. It was the hot sugar from Benny's that had somehow made its way into the ductwork and her apartment. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, still woozy from a long, troubled sleep. One look over the neat bedroom brought back the chilling events of the night before. Someone had broken into her apartment to...clean.

  And to leave the little Hot Wheels car, she recalled, staring at it sitting next to her lamp. She pondered calling the police, having them dust for prints, but what if it had only been Jimmy and
what if they questioned him and he told them about her pushing Sheena into the street?

  She stumbled to the bathroom for aspirin, only to be faced with more orderliness—her medicine cabinet, her vanity. The thought of Jimmy Scaggs handling her birth control pills and her toothbrush made her skin crawl.

  Was it possible that Jimmy was more than just a little skewed? Could he be behind the women who had been reported missing in the area? Did he happen upon them, offer them a ride, take them back to his cabin in the woods of which no one seemed to know the exact location?

  She tossed back three aspirin with a glass of water. It was close to noon. She had slept for...fifteen hours? Was that possible? Her head felt fuzzy from the pain, and she thought a shower would help revive her. But as the water poured over her pounding head, questions about the mysterious events over the past couple of days churned in her mind until things began to muddy. The incident last night with Guy was a case in point: He had offered her a ride home, and she had begun to question his motives. She was starting to suspect everyone in Mojo of evildoing.

  By the time the water ran cold, her headache had eased a bit. She left her hair wet while she flipped through her newly organized closet. The more she thought about it, the more she thought that the person who had done this couldn't have been B.J.—the man was a mess. No, it was a compulsive individual, probably a woman, or maybe a gay man.

  She bit her lower lip—Guy? He did have a key to her apartment, for emergencies and to water the ficus tree if she happened to be out of town for more than a few days. No, he and Marie had been working, and he'd seemed surprised when she'd told him that her apartment had been searched.

  Regardless, she had to admit that the prowler had done an amazing job with her closet.

  She put on a pair of dark jeans and a lime green sweater that she'd forgotten she owned, then dried her hair. Only when she caught herself slicking on pink lipstick did she admit that she was looking forward to seeing B.J. The realization had her reaching for a tissue and wiping off the lipstick. It was one thing to have developed an unhealthy lust for the man as a distraction from her dilemma, but to consciously foster it was something else altogether.