Broken Vows Mystery 01-For Better, for Murder

by Lisa Bork

  “So Erica has been your number-one suspect all along. Tell me, do you think she killed Tim Lapham, too?” I held my breath.

  “She’s riding with a sociopath in a DeLorean stolen from your garage. Did you know Sam Green wasn’t in the psych center the night Tim was killed?”

  I held up my hand as if to say “Stop.” It was too much for me to process all at once, but I knew Erica was not involved in murder.

  His radio squawked his car number and a code. He raised it to his lips and acknowledged the call. “I have to go, Jolene.”

  He laid his key to our home on the table.

  “Ray, we’re not finished talking.”

  “I think we are. I need to do my job. And I will—whatever it takes.” Without a backward glance, he turned and walked out the door.

  That was not the man I married.

  My first loyalty was to Erica. First, last, and always. Like a mother to her child. She needed my protection. Ray didn’t. I would prove Ray wrong. But I would have to call Tommye again to find out why Sam Green wasn’t in the psych center the night Tim was killed.

  I dialed the number from my cell phone in the Porsche.

  “Sam signed himself into the psych center so he could leave at any time. His parents picked him up to go to his brother Alex’s eighteenth birthday party. Big to-do.” Tommye sounded as tired as I felt. “Sam had been behaving himself pretty well in here, so the doctors thought it would be good to have him try a short stint of family life again. I guess he got a taste for freedom instead.”

  And the opportunity to arrange his escape, no doubt. “What’s his home address?” I could use the reverse phone directory to figure it out, but having Tommye tell me would be a lot faster. She must have realized the same because this time she didn’t even protest.

  “Sixteen Vineyard Street.”

  I thanked her and headed my car in that direction. I wanted to see for myself where Sam grew up and what cars were parked in his driveway. I couldn’t be lucky enough to find a late-model Lincoln or a DeLorean there, but I hoped.

  Ten minutes later I sat across the street from what would have been considered a mansion in the 1830s and still said “wealthy” today. Heavy on the brick and turrets, it towered above the road and cast a shadow over the entire manicured lawn, enhancing my feeling of dread. The only car in the driveway was a white BMW. I thought about ringing the doorbell and introducing myself to Sam’s parents, but after recalling his father’s attitude the other night, their welcome seemed remote. I figured them for the kind of parents who blamed everything on their child’s friends and never on their child. I had to ask myself if the same was true of me when it came to Erica. I liked to think it wasn’t.

  I’d hoped to come away from Sam’s home feeling more confident in Erica’s innocence, but one thing stood in my way. When I pulled up, I noticed the sign in front of the mansion across the street from the Greens’ house. It read “Offices of Timothy Lapham and Associates, Certified Public Accountants.”

  Tim Lapham must have known Sam Green. Only a two-lane side street separated Tim’s office from Sam’s home. If only I could locate Erica, maybe I could get some answers—even meet the elusive Mr. Green. All I knew about him was that he stabbed his mother in the hand over a pork chop and captured my sister’s affections. He must have more to his story than that. I hoped it didn’t include a chapter where he killed Tim and placed him in my Ferrari.

  I eased the car into drive and headed for the office, bent on looking up the owner of the Mini Cooper and crossing my fingers it wasn’t one of Sam Green’s friends or neighbors.

  It wasn’t. According to our records, the sparkling silver metallic car belonged to a collector named Brennan Rowe.

  ___

  I debated then called Ray. After I said Brennan Rowe’s name, I thought he’d hung up on me because the line fell silent. But no, he was just as flabbergasted as I was.

  He sighed. “I’m going to go to his house and knock on his door. If he calls you for some reason, say nothing. I don’t want him to have a heads-up before I get a chance to question him.”

  “Okay. Will you call me and tell me what you learn?”

  “No.” He disconnected, leaving me kicking myself for even wasting the breath to ask.

  When I arrived home, I was too exhausted and too stiff to look under the beds and in the closets like I usually did. I’d never found anyone there before. Why would this night be any different?

  I soaked in the tub for an hour. Then I sat staring at the television set for two more. Who knew what show was on? Who cared? Ray didn’t love me anymore. Worse, he thought my sister was a robber and that I might have killed Tim Lapham.

  Or was I just being paranoid? Tim hadn’t been wearing a coat when we found his body, which suggested he’d been killed indoors. Ray hadn’t obtained any warrants to search my apartment for evidence like blood. Or had he come over here the day I was in the hospital to search, only to find the place trashed? Maybe he trashed it himself. I liked to think not, but he’d been manipulative this afternoon, a whole new facet to his personality. Of course, I’d never been implicated in any of his investigations before.

  The money and the knife sheath must have been left by someone to frame me. I could think of no other reasonable explanation. According to Cory, Brennan Rowe had called and learned that I was in the hospital. Rowe would have known it was safe to visit my apartment. Could he have been the killer? Maybe he bribed Tim to vote in his favor, and then Tim changed his mind, forcing him to kill him in order to cover up the bribes. Or maybe he had been blackmailing Tim. But what would a nice guy like Tim be involved in? Gambling? Embezzlement? How would Rowe have known about either one? He was at the funeral service. Maybe he and Tim had been friends. I could always ask Rowe the next time we spoke. Hopefully it would be on Monday after the auction. He should be in a good mood when he won the car. Maybe he would let something about Tim slip. It was worth a try. Had he tried to frame me, knowing that his ties to Tim would be discovered in time?

  If only Ray would tell me what he knew about Tim’s death. He had to know much more than he had shared to date. Of course, I knew more than I shared to date, too. I still hadn’t told him about the knife sheath. I couldn’t, not until I knew it wouldn’t convict me as Tim’s murderer.

  I rose and headed into my bedroom, shutting off the lights as I went. In the bathroom, I went through my nightly bedtime ritual, finding it difficult to raise my arm so I could remove my contacts. It was even harder to pull my nightshirt over my head.

  On the way to bed, I tripped over something on the floor. It was a mousetrap, already activated but without a mouse inside. The peanut butter and cheese on it was smeared but mostly intact. The little guy must have gone for it and been frightened away when the trap snapped. Great, I had lucky mice, fast on their feet.

  I climbed slowly onto the bed and pulled up the covers, straining my ears for the sound of scurrying feet. My apartment was silent, dead silent. I reached over and turned off the lights.

  But I didn’t fall asleep. Visions of mice danced in my head. I pictured one running over my face, then one halfway inside my open mouth, tail wiggling, as I drifted off. Or was that my mouth? The lips were fire-engine red. Familiar lips. Familiar tail.

  I heard a squeak. Not the squeak of a mouse. The squeak of a door opening, a closet door in my living room. Someone was in my apartment. I reached for the phone to dial 911. No dial tone.

  I froze as I heard footsteps. Were they coming toward me or moving away? I opened my mouth to scream but nothing came out. My hands were shaking. I dropped the phone. It crashed onto the floor.

  Now my intruder knew I was awake. I didn’t hear any movement. I slid out of bed and got on my knees, trying to think of a weapon. I didn’t have any nearby. My whole body trembled, covered in cold sweat.

  I recalled my self-defense training. Pretend you have a weapon.

  I tried to speak but only a croak came out. The words couldn’t make it past t
he tightness in my throat. Come on, Jolene.

  “I have … a gun … GET OUT! I HAVE A GUN!”

  All was silent for a moment. Then I heard it. The sound of footsteps running away. The kitchen door banged. He was gone.

  I crept out of bed and into the living room to find my purse. I dialed 911 on my cell phone and reported an intruder. Then I hid behind the sofa.

  Walter arrived within minutes. I heard his sirens and saw the flashing lights through the front window. I clambered out from behind the sofa and met him at the front door.

  This time he was armed and in his black uniform. I told him what happened. With his gun in hand and me within a yard of him, Walter looked behind and under every piece of furniture, in all my closets, behind the shower curtain, and even in the dryer.

  I raised an eyebrow at that one.

  “Some of these cat burglars are tiny guys and clever. Is anything missing?”

  I’d looked every room over more thoroughly than Walter. “Not that I can see.”

  “My guess is you scared him off before he had a chance to grab anything.”

  I didn’t really have anything of worth to grab except a twenty-seven inch television. Even my wallet held only maxed-out credit cards. “I’m not sure it’s that simple. Ray told you about the money I found here, didn’t he?”

  Walter holstered his gun. “No.”

  “Oh. Well …” Now I didn’t know what to share, so I used my distraction technique. “My phone was dead, Walter. I used my cell to call 911.”

  He rushed off to investigate. I followed and watched as he checked the cords and plugged them into the phone outlets again. He picked up the receiver and listened. “They work now.”

  “Do cat burglars usually unplug the phones?”

  “No.” He pointed to a chair. “Want to tell me about the money?”

  Not really. I sat down with him anyway. I thought Ray’s department worked more closely with Walter, but then Walter was only a glorified parking meter attendant. I didn’t want to damage Ray’s investigations any more than I already had with a slip of my lip. “I found some money in my coffee can and a couple other hiding spots. Ray has it now.”

  Walter shifted his weight and his leather holster creaked. “Where did it come from?”

  “I don’t know.” I couldn’t bear to rehash the last week, nor did I know if Ray would be angry with me if I did. “You better ask Ray about it.”

  “I will. I should call for a fingerprint technician.”

  The way Walter said it I knew it would be another waste of time and taxpayer money. “Don’t bother. I’m sure this guy was smart enough to wear gloves.”

  Walter nodded. “Let me check to make sure your locks aren’t damaged.”

  I waited for him to return to the living room.

  “No sign of forced entry. Guy must be a real pro. Although those skeleton locks are easy to pick. You might want to consider a deadbolt.” Walter sat across from me again. “So you don’t really have a gun?”

  “No, not even pepper spray.”

  “I’m not sure Ray would approve of pretending that you do. It worked this time, but next time, the guy might have a gun and fire in self-defense toward the sound of your voice.”

  That was a pretty picture. Walter needed some work on his crime victim reassurance skills.

  Walter continued, “Do you want me to call anyone? Ray maybe?”

  “No thanks, Walter.” Ray had been too manipulative yesterday, and even though he’d cared for me after I body-surfed behind a car, I wanted to hold onto what little pride I had left.

  “Well, if you’re sure. I’ll swing by every hour just in case. Leave your living room and kitchen lights on. That should keep him away.”

  I walked Walter to the door. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I was never so happy to see you.”

  “I was just three blocks away on another robbery call. The intruder was already gone when I got there.” Walter stopped in the doorway. “In fact, this may have been the same guy.”

  I doubted it.

  After Walter’s squad car pulled out of the driveway, I curled up on the couch under the afghan Ray’s Aunt Dorothy made us. I’d brought it home with me so it wouldn’t be lonely in our empty old house. I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping anymore tonight, but maybe I could stop shivering.

  Then it hit me. Had the killer returned to make sure the evidence was still planted in my apartment or, worse, to plant more evidence?

  I stumbled off the couch at that terrifying thought and started searching. After two hours, I hadn’t found anything suspicious. Of course, the only evidence left to plant was trace evidence, like blood. Stuff I wouldn’t be able to see with my naked eye.

  Stuff that would guarantee an airtight case against me.

  The next morning I showered with the sunrise and took off for the diner on Main Street, fleeing my apartment and my fears. I sat there for two hours, dawdling over my breakfast and reading the Sunday newspaper from cover to cover. I might even have dozed off for a second or two. My waitress was ticked, until she spotted the twenty dollar tip I left her.

  Then I went to sit in the shop. Somehow the place where I’d found a dead man seemed safer than my home where I’d surprised a live one. In the wee hours of the morning, I’d almost managed to convince myself that if my intruder wanted to kill me, he would have done so last night. Of course, the killer’s weapon of choice, as well as the Beak’s, had been a knife, which required close proximity. Guns trump knives. Maybe that was why I was still alive.

  Or maybe the killer had no need to eliminate me, since Ray and the court system would have me locked up soon enough, based on the evidence. The thought terrified me. Prison was the one place I never wanted to go, and if I was in there, Erica would be running around unsupervised. Given enough time, she’d probably end up in the cell next to me.

  This time the master of distraction needed a distraction. Otherwise, I would drive myself crazy thinking about all the possibilities.

  I fired up the computer and searched the Internet for a candy apple red Jaguar that might fit Matt Travis’ requirements for his wife’s Christmas present. I located one in Albany. I called and spoke to the owner, who had a pretty impressive paper trail. Good quality automobiles are all about paper trails: purchase documents, maintenance records, and so on. I hung up positive that I’d found the right one. It gave me some hope.

  I rose to put on my coat. I would go home and sleep in the daylight.

  Then I heard a scratching noise. I froze. The sound seemed to be coming from the garage bays. My hand hovered over the phone receiver. Should I dial 911? If it was only a mouse—the garage did have its share of infestations—I’d look like an idiot. If it was a killer, I wanted Ray or even Walter. I swallowed the lump in my throat and rose to my feet to investigate with nine and one already dialed into my cell phone.

  As I stepped into the bays, the side door slammed closed. One garage door began to roll up its tracks, squeaking in protest. When it reached the top, the stainless steel DeLorean glided inside. The driver’s door opened and Bob Cratchit stepped out. The passenger door clicked open and rose, and his wife appeared. I took a closer look under the red plaid and black velvet bonnet.

  “Erica!”

  “Hey, Jolene. How do we look?” She twirled and her full skirt billowed around her ankles. “We dressed for the celebration today. It’s only two weeks until Christmas.” She stopped twirling and leaned toward me. “Your present’s all set. I can’t wait for you to see it.” She clapped her hands and raced around the front end of the car, grabbed the driver’s arm and pulled him toward me.

  “This is Sam. Sam, this is Jolene.”

  Sam was good-looking, for the devil. He had wide shoulders, a small waist, brown hair that curled around his face, expressive brown eyes, and the unlined skin of a man in his twenties. It was clear she’d fallen for a younger man. At the moment, his eyes expressed happiness at being in Erica’s company. God help her if she ever served
him a pork chop as his mother did.

  He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jolene. Erica talks about you all the time.” He gestured to the DeLorean. “And thanks for letting us borrow the car. It was way cool.”

  I scowled at Erica. She shrugged. She didn’t even have the sense to look apologetic.

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re both here. I have to ask you a few important questions.”

  Sam frowned and pulled out a pocket watch. I wondered where they’d found such authentic costumes. I should call the town to see if they’d had a theft from the costume closet. “We have to meet my cousin in ten minutes. He’s over at the Rotary Club hanging with Father Christmas.”

  “Are they friends?” If so, I was going to have to talk to Henry Hart about the town’s hiring policies.

  “Not really. Theo’s got a thing for candy canes and the girl working with the Father.”

  I wanted to pull out my phone and dial Ray, but I knew they’d bolt if I did. “Sam, did you know Tim Lapham?”

  His eyebrows shot up in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “Not really. He had his office in the house across the street from my parents. He waved to me every once in a while; that’s all.”

  “Do you know who hid fifteen thousand dollars in my apartment?”

  This time he laughed. “No. If I had access to that kind of cash, Erica and I would have gone to the Caribbean, not the casino.”

  I didn’t want to mention the knife sheath so I chose the next best question. “Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill Tim Lapham?”

  Sam’s expression sobered. “No. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He did my dad’s books. My dad was happy with him, and my dad isn’t usually happy with anybody.” His chin dropped to his chest.

  Erica sidled close and hugged him. “Sam’s dad sent Sam to the psych center. He never even came to visit.”

  I tried to nod in a sympathetic way, confident Sam’s parents had another side to the story. “Can you prove your whereabouts for the last week?”