Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  "It's possible," she murmured, trying to think back. "I remember going to the ladies' room, and...and I made some calls at the pay phone."

  Angora's eyes widened. "Carl made a call, too."

  Roxann grinned. "Angora, you're a genius."

  "I am?"

  "Yes—I'll bet that's what happened. I assumed that the killer found my scarf and used it, but maybe Carl found it and was keeping it to give back to me later. Maybe it was just there, and the killer used it."

  "Wow, I am a genius."

  She laughed. "And now that one mystery is solved, we can start looking for other clues."

  "But what about my...visions?"

  Roxann angled her head. "Angora, in these visions, what does Carl look like?"

  "He's lying on the floor, looking straight up at me, with his eyes wide open, staring through his glasses."

  "That's definitely not how Carl looked in the crime-scene photos—and he wasn't even wearing his glasses."

  Angora exhaled in relief. "Then I didn't do it."

  Roxann smiled. "I'd say that's a safe assumption."

  "Well, if you didn't do it, and I didn't do it, then who did?"

  "I don't know, but I intend to find out. But Angora, you have to tell me everything, and I mean everything you know that might be relevant."

  "Everything?"

  "Everything."

  Angora sighed. "Okay. Do you remember when you taught me how to give a blowjob on a tube of Crest?"

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  "HELLO, MELISSA?"

  "Yes," the woman answered, her voice laced with suspicion. "This is Melissa Morgan."

  Her new last name—of course. "Melissa, this is Roxann from the Rescue program."

  "Roxann? I didn't think I'd ever hear from you again."

  "How are you and Renita getting along?"

  "Wonderfully. She loves Kansas City, and her new school. She's like a different child, so happy."

  "I'm so glad for you."

  "Is something wrong, Roxann?"

  "Actually, Melissa, I'm in a bit of a bind, and I was hoping you could help me out."

  "I will if I can."

  She took a deep breath and made her request, explaining the ramifications if Melissa did or didn't decide to help. Twenty minutes later, she had her yes. She thanked Melissa, then hung up and dialed Nell's sister on the pay phone. The sister had obviously heard news of the arrest, because when Roxann identified herself, she was hesitant to let her speak to Nell. But when Nell heard, she took the call right away.

  "Roxann, dear, are you all right?"

  She spent the next few minutes assuring her mentor that everything was fine, despite the news sound bites and grim newspaper reports. "I think the DA was pressured into making an arrest."

  "Do you still think that Frank Cape might have had something to do with the murder?"

  "It's possible. Or..."

  "Or what, dear?"

  "Dr. Oney, when Carl was being investigated by the regents for having an improper relationship with a student, was I that student?"

  "Yes, what did you think?"

  "Well, I've been hearing some pretty unflattering things about Carl—that he traded sexual favors for grades, things like that."

  Dr. Oney gasped. "Carl would never do that. Never."

  She smiled into the phone. "I knew you'd say that."

  "When do you think I can come back to South Bend?"

  "Not yet, not until Cape is tracked down."

  "But in time for the memorial service next week?"

  "I hope so. I'm going over to your house to pick up my van—can I check on anything for you? Feed the cats? Water the flower garden maybe?"

  "I left food and water for the cats, but bless you, yes, my rosemary will need a drink."

  "Will do."

  "Roxann, I've been giving more thought to that Frank Cape predicament, and I think you should let me contact the ex-wife and offer counsel. I just can't bear it if you're hurt."

  "It's already taken care of. I talked to his ex-wife a few minutes ago, and she agreed to help."

  "That's wonderful. Maybe it will help flush out Cape—and if he's the one who killed Carl, I want to see him punished."

  "So do I."

  "Is Melissa happy in her new location?"

  "Yes."

  "And Renita?"

  "Oh, yes. Very."

  Nell sighed in satisfaction. "It's good to know the program is working the way it's supposed to."

  "You have a lot to be proud of." A checkered car caught her eye. "There's a taxi, so I have to run. I'll call you soon."

  "Bye, dear."

  If Roxann had any doubts that her picture had been plastered all over the news, all she needed was the wide-eyed stare in the rearview mirror from the taxi driver to clear things up. The guy was so spooked, he drove off before she could pay him. But considering how low she was running on cash, she didn't mind. She didn't even want to think about the hole the ten-thousand-dollar bail bond had left in her IRA.

  Nell's place seemed melancholy, and she noticed for the first time how run-down the outside had become. Peeling paint, overgrown shrubs, and rocks missing from the stone steps. She might have blamed it on not having a man around the house, but her father's house looked the same. It said something about the feeling of home, she supposed, and that having people around made a house worth maintaining.

  She found the outside hose and watered the flower beds and herbs, hoping she wasn't somehow killing them in the process. Afterward she sat on the cool stone steps to return her supervisor's frantic phone message. Apparently, he'd heard.

  "Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, what's going on in South Bend?"

  "A man I knew was murdered, and I've been arrested."

  "You sound pretty calm for someone charged with murder."

  "Funny how a person adapts," she said wryly. "Don't worry about me. I figure as long as the real killer thinks the heat is off, he might make a mistake."

  "He?"

  "It could be Frank Cape, although I can't be sure. He followed me to South Bend."

  "Oh, my God. So that's why Nell left a message asking questions about the Cape case. She's afraid for you."

  She smiled. "Yes, but I just spoke with her, so don't worry about calling her back. Besides, the murder could also be a random crime, or any number of things. Obviously, I'm going to need a few days off." Then she puffed out her cheeks in an exhale. "Actually, Tom, I'm giving my notice."

  "What? Why?"

  "Well, it might be tricky trying to facilitate from the state pen."

  "Don't even joke about that."

  "Seriously, Tom, I've run my course. This thing with Cape makes me see that."

  "All right, you know this is a freewill organization, both the people we help, and the ones doing the helping. But if you ever want to come back, just call."

  "I will. Thanks, Tom. Listen, I ran into Elise James on campus—have you heard from her?"

  "No, and I've left several messages on her cell phone. I have a check for her for a couple of hundred dollars, and I don't know where to send it."

  "She said she was going to call you, but to be honest, she was pretty messed up."

  "Understood. Thanks for letting me know."

  She pushed down the antenna and returned the phone to her purse, suddenly remembering a curious detail about Elise—the woman had such large hands. Large and strong enough for strangling? She pursed her mouth, wondering if Capistrano had given the woman's name to his counterparts in town as he'd promised. Of course, since he was diddling one of their prime suspects, they might find his leads questionable at best. Every time she thought about her stupid, stupid lapse in judgment, she wanted to swallow something jagged.

  Oh, well, enough about her sorry sex life—she needed to get to the hotel and retrieve her clothes. She'd book a room under another name, then maybe throw on a wig and start doing some poking around on her own.

  She rounded the corner of the house to retri
eve Goldie, then stopped. The van's tires had been slashed. Not just by some prankster kid looking for a place to stick his new Case pocketknife—the rubber had literally been shredded by a sharp instrument, and by someone with considerable strength. Or anger. The violated feeling that coursed through her reminded her of when her apartment had been rifled.

  I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.

  Frank Cape? She reached into her purse and put her finger on the trigger of her pepper-spray can, for comfort rather than purpose. Judging from the lack of footprints in the grass, he was probably long gone. Then she froze as heavy footsteps sounded behind her.

  "There you are."

  She wheeled and aimed the spray at Frank Cape's face, and instead hit Joe Capistrano square in the chest. The effects were instantaneous—he yowled and spun like a helicopter crashing. Roxann dropped the can and ran for the water hose, which she turned on him full force. He tore off the long-sleeved T-shirt and stood in the water stream, running his hands over the red areas of his torso again and again. All of that hair was good for something after all. Otherwise, he'd be nursing third-degree burns.

  He didn't talk, and since she wasn't exactly looking forward to the conversation, she concentrated on the task at hand, which was holding the hose and trying not to laugh.

  After a fifteen-minute shower, he yanked the hose away from her. "That's enough," he barked, then turned off the spigot and wound up the hose, muttering under his breath. His jeans were soaked and plastered to his legs—they had to weigh a ton.

  Roxann pressed her finger to her mouth. "I'm sorry."

  "Dammit, you should be. I feel like I've been barbecued."

  "I thought you were Cape."

  "Didn't anyone tell you to make damn sure where you're aiming that stuff before you hit the trigger?"

  "Didn't anyone tell you not to sneak up on people?"

  "I wasn't sneaking."

  "You were sneaking."

  "I wasn't sneaking."

  "Oh, yes, you were sneaking."

  He lifted both hands and slung off the water. "Forget it." Then he saw the van tires. "Cape?"

  "I assume so."

  He walked over and examined a slashed tire. "The poor thing might have committed suicide."

  "Funny. How did you know I was here?"

  "I called and you'd already left the courthouse, so I took a chance." He quirked an eyebrow. "You weren't fixin' to leave town, were you?"

  "No. Just wanted to get my things from the hotel and book a room."

  "You have a room."

  "And book a private room."

  "Look, about what happened between us, I'm sorry—"

  "I'm sorry, too," she cut in with a glib smile. "And we need never to talk about it again."

  He frowned. "I was going to say I'm sorry we were interrupted."

  Oh. "Well, considering I was taken from the hotel in handcuffs, so am I."

  He sighed and ran his hands through his auburn hair, displacing more water. "Do you think I could dry off before we continue our one long argument?"

  She dug her keys out of her purse. "I might have a towel in the van. I want to take a look inside anyway."

  Big mistake.

  The seats had been slashed, including the bench behind the driver's seat. The items from her box of mementos were strewn. She found the crushed box and slowly started putting things in as she found them—a keychain, a charm bracelet, the Magic 8 Ball. All of the personal items she kept stashed in the back had been ransacked and scattered—blankets to cover cold, fleeing bodies, nonperishable snacks to feed hungry little bellies, and her relic of a suitcase filled with disguise clothing. This was most apparent in the form of a blond wig that had been singled out and attached to the dashboard with a wicked-looking buck knife.

  A blond wig.

  They said Tammy had something on your cousin, was holding it over her head...something to do with a blond wig.

  Her lungs squeezed, and she gulped for air. It was all connected somehow, her past and her present.

  "What is it?" Capistrano demanded. "Roxann, what's wrong?"

  YOU FAKE. I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  IT WAS A PITIFUL collection of memories, Roxann decided, looking over the contents of the battered box jostling on her lap. She picked up the Magic 8 Ball and silently posed the question "Is my life a national disaster?" She turned over the toy.

  Yes, definitely.

  Capistrano thumped his hand on the steering wheel of the Dooley. "Dammit, Roxann, if you don't tell me what's wrong, I can't help you."

  "What's wrong? What isn't wrong?"

  "Something spooked you back there."

  "Isn't it enough to find Goldie destroyed?"

  "You named your van?"

  "You named your gun."

  He frowned. "All those clothes and wigs—do you use them when you move women from place to place?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Is there some significance to that blond wig?"

  She swallowed. "It had a knife through it."

  "I mean the wig itself—or the color. Is Melissa Cape blond?"

  "Brunette."

  "Do you think it was a threat against Angora?"

  "Maybe."

  "You know something you're not telling me."

  "Give it a rest, Detective. I've had a bad day."

  He sighed and shifted on the towel he'd spread over the seat of his truck. Another towel was draped over his bare shoulders. "How did it go today at the courthouse?"

  "Fine and dandy."

  "I'm serious."

  She fingered her green and white Notre Dame tassel, with the little '96 gold-tone charm attached. "After the arraignment, the DA offered me and Angora a deal if we'd serve up the other one."

  "And your cousin didn't jump on it?"

  "No." She frowned. "I thought you liked Angora."

  "Like?"

  "Well, the way you look at her—" She stopped before he got the impression that she was jealous or something stupid like that.

  He grinned. "You're jealous."

  "You're delusional. And I thought we were talking about the meeting."

  "Did you tell the DA about Angora—the possible mental problems, the comments she made?"

  "No. She underwent a psych consult at the hospital."

  "And?"

  "And, according to her attorney, she's a pathological liar and fantastically spoiled, but she wouldn't harm anyone. I had a private heart-to-heart with her—she didn't do it."

  "I hope you're right." He checked the rearview mirror, ever alert.

  "But she did tell me a couple of things that could be important."

  "Like?"

  She dropped the tassel back into the box. "Like she went down on Dr. Seger in his office once when she was a student."

  He emitted a low whistle. "I thought you said she was a virgin."

  "Do I have to give you a definition of 'virgin'?"

  "No, but that's not exactly virginal behavior."

  Roxann shrugged. "She must've been crazy about him is all I can say."

  "So chances are, Dr. Seger was participating in extracurricular activities with his students?"

  She squirmed. "Chances are."

  "But he never hit on you?"

  "No."

  "He must've liked you."

  She cut her gaze to him. "Are you saying that guys don't make passes at women they like?"

  "No. I mean that a guy like Seger who was exploiting young girls probably had a line in his head separating the girls he respected."

  She simply stared.

  "I'm shutting up."

  "Thank you."

  He kept his word for about thirty seconds. "Did she tell you anything else you didn't know?"

  She nodded. "The night Tammy Paulen was run down, she was driving nearby. She heard a scream, then saw a black Volvo driving away."

  "Seger?"

  She looked out the window. "He has—had—a black Volvo." Her
voice cracked, and she cleared her throat of the sudden emotion that welled. Okay, maybe she could believe that Carl engaged in dalliances with his pretty students, but the thought that he would actually leave the scene of a crime was incomprehensible. He taught ethics, for heaven's sake.

  He made a rueful noise in his throat. "It's not your fault that Seger wasn't the man you thought he was."

  "It makes me feel foolish that I could be so blind, though."

  "Maybe the way he acted around you was the way he wanted to be."

  "You're being generous all of a sudden."

  He shrugged. "Nobody is all good or all bad. Even some of the worst criminals love their mother, or tell bedtime stories to their kids, or buy cream for their cats."

  Okay, he'd managed to surprise her—and make her feel a tad better.

  "So we know he wasn't a saint. And that it's entirely possible one of his students could've dropped by and done him in."

  She told him their theory on how the scarf had made its way to the crime scene.

  "Not bad," he said. "Maybe we can find someone at the restaurant who saw him pick it up. One thing is sure—if the DA is relying on one of you to turn on the other, he doesn't have enough evidence to convict."

  "That's what I told him."

  "You or your lawyer?"

  "My lawyer is a narcoleptic idiot with a good ad agency. I handled everything."

  He pursed his mouth. "You know an awful lot about the law for someone determined not to have anything to do with it."

  She smirked.

  "Listen, I'm sorry I wasn't at the arraignment, but I thought my time would be better spent looking for Cape."

  "I guess you didn't find him?"

  His mouth twisted. "No. He probably changed vehicles, maybe his appearance." He looked over. "No offense, but you should've stayed in jail. You'd be safer."

  "I filed a restraining order on Cape this morning, since I was already at the courthouse," she said wryly. "And I have my pepper spray."

  "Don't remind me."

  "Is it possible Cape could've wrecked my van when he threatened Nell? I didn't check it."

  He shook his head. "Surely Nell would have noticed, or the police when they came to make the report."

  Her laugh was dry. "I'm not overly impressed with the South Bend detectives, although Warner seems okay. But I don't think they're going to go out of their way to find another suspect. Did you tell them about Elise?"