Shoes and Baby: Women Sleuth

by S. Y. Robins

  “Mrs. Collins!” Jade saw a familiar face in the crowd and worked her way over to her landlady. “Mrs. Collins—what’s going on?”

  “You haven’t heard, my dear? Oh, my.” The woman clutched a hand to her chest. “There’s been a murder.”

  “A murder?” Jade asked, alarmed. “Who? Where?”

  She was just about to say that on second thought, it didn’t matter—she knew hardly a single person here—but Mrs. Collins was only too eager to tell her all the details.

  “Why, Vera Acker!”

  “The woman who lives near me?” Jade asked, alarmed.

  “Oh, yes, dear, terribly tragic. And so frightening, don’t you think! Some lunatic running around the countryside, beating poor old women to death in their homes.”

  “She was beaten to death?” Jade asked, horrified. All of her preconceptions about Britain were falling away rather unpleasantly. She was a writer, she thought to herself—she of all people should know that murder could happen anywhere there were people. But something about this quaint little countryside with its pretty cottages and tiny town center had seemed beyond things like violence.

  “Yes, two nights ago. They just found her body yesterday when her nephew went to visit. That’s him over there, dear.” She gestured to the Indian man. “Her brother’s son.”

  “And they don’t have any idea who did it?” Jade asked, her heart sinking. Murder wasn’t generally random, she knew that. Still, the idea was giving her chills.

  “Not at all, not at all! Of course, they’re looking at the nephew. Her only heir, you see.” Mrs. Collins waved her hand. “But that’s nothing more than prejudice, if you ask me. Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly! He’s a wonderful young man.”

  Forbearing to mention that the “young man” appeared to be in his fifties, Jade studied him covertly. His face had a greyish tinge, and he was edging steadily towards the door, trying to escape the crowd of people who wanted to offer their condolences. One old lady had his hand clasped firmly in hers and appeared to be telling a story about his aunt. The poor man appeared truly overwhelmed.

  “And it’s so sad that she was killed now, of all times,” Mrs. Collins said, hand still dramatically at her chest. If she’d been wearing pearls, Jade was sure she’d be clutching those.

  “Mmm?”

  “Why, she’d just broken into the art scene!” Mrs. Collins shook her head in affected sympathy. “Her work was selected for a huge showing in London. She was going to be a star, our Vera! After so many years as our favorite artist, a local treasure—and struck down in the prime of her career!”

  “That’s terrible,” Jade said. The words were heartfelt. Her own big break had come a year before, when one of her novels hit the bestseller lists. A book tour and a deal had followed soon after, and now she was struggling to come up with an appropriately good sequel. She’d thought the pressure was terrible, but now she had an awful example of a way things could be much, much worse. She had a chance to keep working and creating. Vera never would.

  She had to get out of here. Jade smiled and extricated herself from the conversation, stumbling out into the cloudy day with a sigh of relief. She leaned against the wall, sighing heavily.

  And then, with a chill, she remembered. Two days ago, Mrs. Collins said. Or perhaps a day and a half ago, just around nightfall—in the driving rain, a night when no one should have been out but at least one person had been, a person who didn’t seem to want any help with the suspicious scratches on his face.

  A person who was coming right up the street toward her. Jade heard her breath catch, and Maddox looked up. Fear passed over his face. He looked terrified. He looked hunted. And then he turned and ran back down the sidewalk.

  “Wait!” She was furious now. She had no idea what she was going to say when she caught up to him, but she would figure that out later.

  He didn’t listen. They pounded down the concrete, her gaining on him, but his car was too close. He slid into the driver’s seat and backed out jerkily, screeching off down the street while Jade leaned over, heaving for breath.

  Dammit.

  “Is something wrong?” The voice was smooth, deep, and wildly sexy.

  Jade stood up slowly, turned around, and cursed her new commitment to sweaters and jeans.

  The man in front of her was an Adonis. His dark hair was artfully arranged, his smile bright, his teeth straight and white. From high cheekbones to a jaw that could cut glass, his face was perfection—and his body wasn’t far behind. Broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips, every line of his well-muscled torso standing out clearly in a dark green crew-cut sweater. Far from being as pasty pale as everyone else in this town, he was tanned, the very vision of health. He looked like he’d walked right out of an ad.

  Jade tried to focus on his flaws. Unfortunately, the only one she could see was that he wasn’t very tall—right around her height. At 5’7”, however, she’d gotten used to that in guys. She smiled, and hoped there wasn’t anything in her teeth.

  “Ah, nothing’s wrong. No.”

  “So that man didn’t…rob you, or anything.”

  “No, no, not at all. We…” Jade couldn’t come up with any witty way to explain what had happened. “I just needed to talk to him and he doesn’t seem to want to.”

  “Bad breakup?” One perfect eyebrow lifted.

  “No!” Her answer was instantaneous. “No, I’m—single.” Of course, she’d be single if she’d just had a breakup, too. She cursed inwardly and tried not to blush. “I just mean…he’s my neighbor.”

  “Oh, you live around here?” The man smiled brilliantly. “I wouldn’t have thought so. You have quite an accent.”

  So do you—a yummy one. But clearly, she couldn’t say that.

  “I’m just staying here for a few weeks.”

  “And you’re sharing a house with…?” He gestured.

  “Oh, Maddox? No. He just lives up the hill from me.” Jade waved her hands awkwardly, the wax paper bag with the scone flopping around. “I…saw him outside the other night and thought he was trying to be a peeping tom, and I really don’t think he was, but he was acting very strangely?” She looked up, and saw the man staring at her.

  “Really.”

  “Oh, please don’t tell anyone what I said about the peeping tom.” She was blushing now. “You know how gossip is in a town like this, and I just don’t want anyone to think—“

  “Of course,” he said smoothly.

  “And, uh…” She didn’t want him to go. “Who are you? Do you live here?”

  “Ah, no. I’m down from the city.” Apparently, she should know which one. Manchester? She tried to remember what was nearby. “I was here to…conclude some business with an associate. Jack Eason, at your service.”

  “Jade Ruiz,” Jade shook his outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet you. So what do you do?”

  “I’m a sculptor.” He held out his hands, cleaner than she would have expected, and flashed a smile and sketched her a debonair little bow. “I do hope we’ll meet again, Miss Ruiz. But if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I need to attend to rather urgently.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” Jade watched as he walked quickly toward a nearby car and pulled out smoothly, zooming away with a little wave.

  Okay. No progress on the manuscript, one murder, one suspicious neighbor…and one gorgeous man. She wasn’t sure if life was getting better or worse.

  3

  Jade slumped forward and let her head thunk onto the desk. She groaned softly, one hand clutched around a mug of tea, the other still clenching her pen. She’d managed to get one page done all day. A single page.

  It wasn’t really her fault, of course. That was what she would tell her agent when they called. Her agent, a no-nonsense man who lived in New York, would snort, and Jade would explain how every time the wind blew a branch against the window, she jumped and swore, absolutely sure that a murderer was coming to beat her to death. And her agent, she was sure, would ask her why
she thought a murderer would come beat her to death. To which she already had her retort planned: why would anyone beat Vera Acker to death, either?

  She’d already spent a good hour staring at the cast iron stove and pondering. The story wasn’t any of her business, but it nagged at her—because she was a writer, she told herself. Who would beat an 80-year-old watercolorist to death? This was almost certainly not a crime of passion in the conventional sense. Surely the elderly Miss Acker hadn’t run over anyone’s cat or, say, driven them to blinding road rage. Could it be some long-forgotten slight, come back to haunt her? Perhaps she had stolen someone’s husband, or...

  The idea of an old woman being beaten to death by another old woman was just too ridiculous. Jade shook her head. No, her lack of ideas came from the simple fact that the explanation was right in front of her: Maddox Smith was the killer, and he was terrified that she was going to expose him. Which she should have done before she left town. She’d driven to the little police station and parked outside it for fifteen minutes, tapping the steering wheel like she always did when she was nervous.

  She had convinced herself it was nothing. Her mother did always say she had too much of an imagination. People walked around in the rain for all sorts of reasons. She had, because her car had broken down. Maybe his had, too. And she knew he was terribly shy. Even if he’d only slipped and fallen that night, her chasing him down must have scared him. Perhaps he’d only been staring at the cottage because he was a painter.

  Now, of course, Jade was kicking herself. She should have gone in and said something. After all, if Maddox was innocent, surely the police would figure that out quickly, wouldn’t they? They were so focused on Vera’s nephew that they weren’t even looking at other suspects. She’d be doing no harm to Maddox by airing her suspicions—unless, of course, he was guilty. In which case justice should be done. She went to pick up the phone, and paused.

  Out the window, the road wound up the hill to another lonely little cottage: Maddox’s. His car, she could see, was not there. In fact, she remembered now that she’d heard a car drive past not fifteen minutes ago. Wherever Maddox had gone, he likely wouldn’t be back for at least an hour.

  Her coat was on before she even paused to think, and she hurried out of the little cottage and up the hill with her heart pounding. What on earth was she doing? Why couldn’t she just call the police and leave it be?

  Because it would be better to have evidence, her mind insisted.

  Another part of her mind told her to stop being ridiculous. Maddox was going to be home soon, and what did she expect—that he would go tromping over the hills in the rain to murder an old woman, then come back and store some sort of evidence she hadn’t seen him carrying in his own home? No one was that stupid.

  But she couldn’t seem to stop walking. She just wanted to see, after all. He might have lent his car to someone. She could apologize for chasing after him earlier that day. She could ask what had happened two nights ago. That was neighborly, wasn’t it? She marched up the little stone path and knocked on his door.

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Smith?”

  Nothing.

  “I’m really sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and you’d talked to the police if someone attacked you.”

  Nothing. Not even a sound from the cottage. She should turn around and go home, she knew that. She had delivered her apology, and if he wasn’t home, she could wait until she saw his car return and—

  Almost without her own volition, she saw her hand drop, lift the latch, and push open the front door. With a quick look over her shoulder, Jade slipped into the semi-darkness and tiptoed into the main room. It was an almost-exact replica of her cottage: a large main room with a kitchen, bed, and fireplace, a tiny bathroom off the main room, and a closet to store a small amount of clothes. But whereas Jade’s cottage was clearly for travelers, Maddox’s cottage looked as though he’d lived there for years. A frame on the bedside table held pictures of him and two people who could only be his siblings. A tiny shelf at the end of the bed held a few books and knick-knacks, and… Jade drew in her breath sharply.

  An easel sat in the corner, where the light from the window fell in and there was a view down into the valley below. Watercolors and brushes lay on a stool next to the easel, and next to that, leaning against the wall, were a set of watercolors that looked nothing like the one on the easel. Stooping down to look, Jade marked the signature in the bottom right corner of each: Vera Acker.

  Had Maddox killed the woman to steal her now-valuable paintings? She chewed her lip. No, that was ridiculous. Mrs. Collins told her that Maddox studied with Vera; she must have lent him these so that he could use them as examples to work off of.

  She stood up to leave, and her gaze fell on the wastebasket. Telling herself not to be fanciful, she peered out the window and then—the coast being clear—edged over to the wastebasket and lifted the lid. When she saw what lay inside, she drew in her breath sharply. Bloodstained tissues and a ruined shirt lay inside. She hesitated, then drew out the shirt. It was still wet—as it would be, she supposed, if it had been soaking wet when he threw it away. It looked like he had tried to wash away the blood and, failing, threw the shirt away.

  Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe he was stupid enough to leave evidence lying around.

  The sound of car tires on gravel recalled her. In horror, Jade heard a car door open. With a gasp, she dropped the shirt back into the wastebasket and ran for the back door. As she opened it, she saw the arm of the shirt still draping over the side. No time to fix it. She wrenched the door open and slid out, closing it as gently as she could, and looked around herself at the garden. Dropping low, she ran in a crouch until she could lose herself in the nearby trees.

  She had just dived behind a bush when she heard the back door open. She dropped to the ground and froze.

  “Who’s there?” Maddox’s voice rang out against the twittering of birds and the low gusts of wind. “I saw you running, you know! I saw you! Come out!”

  Jade pressed her back up against a tree and willed herself not to look; he might see her skin among the trees. She could not hear footsteps. Oddly, he sounded more frightened than threatening.

  “I have a knife!” he called out into the trees.

  Oh, God.

  “You….you better not come back!”

  She should really be thankful that he wasn’t the type to come finish the job, right? But he had a knife, and a bloody shirt in his cottage, and where had he gone that he had been away for such a short time? She heard the door close and peeked back over her shoulder. It was no ruse, he really was inside. But what if he came to check later?

  Flattening herself onto the ground, Jade crept slowly away, trying not to make the tops of the bushes sway too obviously. About a hundred yards away, she changed her direction to slope downhill. If she stayed in the cover of the trees, she could circle around and get to town—and maybe, with luck, Maddox wouldn’t realize anything was wrong until she’d reported him to the police.

  She tried to walk, but as soon as she reached the road, far below her own cottage, she started running. It wasn’t logical and it wasn’t smart—Maddox might be able to see her if he looked out the window, and what if he wanted to chase her down in his car? But she was beyond logic right now. He’d nearly caught her in the cottage, and he had a knife, and the next time she stumbled onto evidence, who knew what would happen? She might not have another chance to tell the police what she knew.

  Her feet had developed terrible blisters by the time she reached town, and she was red in the face and out of breath. Stumbling up to the police station, she took the time to try and check her appearance in the window and found it more deranged-looking than she’d like.

  Well, there was nothing for it. Jade pushed open the door and made her way into the little room, swallowing nervously as one of the policemen looked around at her.

  “Yes?”
one of them asked courteously.

  “I have, uh…” She’d just realized she was going to have to admit she went into Maddox’s cottage. “I have evidence about Vera Acker’s murder.”

  Eyebrows went up.

  “Come with me, Miss…”

  “Ruiz. I’m Jade, I’m renting a cottage from Mrs. Collins.”

  For some reason, they exchanged a very significant look with one another, but the policeman who’d asked her to come with him held open a door and ushered her into a study. Closing it and switching on a tape recorder, he gestured to a chair nearby.

  “Please, sit. Miss Ruiz, what evidence do you have about Miss Acker’s murder?”

  “I…well, the night she was murdered, I’d just gotten home, and I saw someone out in the road, staring at me. When I went out to investigate, I saw that it was Maddox Smith—and that he had scratches on his arms.”

  “Mm.” The policeman took down the notes, his eyes darting to where the tape recorder whirred softly. “And what time did this occur?”

  Jade frowned.

  “Right around dusk?”

  “Mm-hmm. And you say you had just gotten home.”

  “Yes?”

  “And why were you out that afternoon?”

  “Grocery shopping.”

  “I see. And were you, by chance, walking out in the woods?”

  “Not in the woods—on the road. My car broke down and…” Jade frowned. “Look, why do you want to know?”

  “Miss Ruiz, could you provide any evidence that your car did indeed break down?”

  “I called the towing company a bit before I saw Mr. Smith outside,” Jade said, nettled. Why wasn’t he focusing on the accusation? Why would he…

  It slammed into place the next moment.

  “He told you I did it, didn’t he?” she demanded.