DYING
TO BE
MURDERED
BY
JUDY FITZWATER
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events described in this novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2001 and 2011 by Judy Fitzwater
Originally published by The Ballantine Publishing Group, May 2001.
Cover art copyright © by Vanessa Garcia
All rights reserved. This book, or any part of it, cannot be reproduced or distributed by any means without express permission in writing from the author.
Chapter 1
“A thousand dollars?” Jennifer Marsh pressed one ear shut with her thumb and shook her head as though to rattle it. Maybe that sore throat she had had last week had spread to her ears because she surely must have heard wrong. “I’m sorry. I thought you said some woman wants to pay me a thousand dollars a week to chronicle the end of her life.”
An exasperated Monique Dupree let out a rush of air across the phone line. “That’s exactly what I said.”
Jennifer plopped down onto one of her dining chairs. “What’s the matter with her? Is she terminally ill?”
Cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear, she let the last crust of jelly toast fall from her hand, back onto the plate. Absently, she brushed the crumbs from her fingers and pushed away her greyhound, Muffy, who seemed to think that maybe just this once Jennifer would let her eat from the table.
Jennifer obviously needed to give this discourse more attention than she usually afforded her conversations with Monique, which typically required no more than an “uh-huh” dropped strategically here and there.
“I wouldn’t know what her problem is. The last time I saw her she did look a little pale, but she certainly didn’t act ill,” Monique told her, sounding miffed. “I agree it’s nuts, but the woman is Mary Bedford Ashton, one of Macon’s most prominent matrons. At least she was. She’s slowed down somewhat this past year. Anyway, she’s certainly got the money.”
“What, exactly, does she want?”
“A straightforward daily accounting, sort of like a diary, as best I could tell.”
“She could do that herself.”
“I told her that.”
“So why—”
“Why you?”
Jennifer gave in and tossed the last of the toast to Muffy, who was nuzzling her arm mercilessly. The dog caught it in midair.
“I’m not even a published writer,” Jennifer reminded her. “Not yet anyway. With money like that she could hire almost anybody.”
“She read about you in the newspaper. She knows you’re a mystery writer, that we critique each other’s work, and that you’ve been involved in solving some local crimes.”
“What’s that got to do with a diary?”
“I have no idea. She said she prefers someone from Macon.” Jennifer could imagine Monique shaking her head. Mrs. Ashton had asked specifically for Jennifer when Monique was a published author, at least in science fiction.
“She’s family, Jennifer,” Monique confessed. “Her husband was my third, no, maybe fourth cousin removed I don’t know how many times. He was a close friend of my parents. She asked if I’d contact you, so that’s what I’m doing.”
That explained a lot.
“Besides,” Monique went on, “I know you can use the money. I told her about Muffy, and she said you can bring her with you.”
“Bring Muffy? Why would I need to bring my dog?”
“She expects you to stay with her in the house.”
“Overnight? Oh, no, no.” Jennifer was on her feet, heading, plate and coffee cup in hand, down her tiny slit of a kitchen to the sink. “I couldn’t possibly. I’ve got obligations. I have my writing to do. And I have to help Dee Dee with her catering. She has two jobs already lined up for this coming Sunday and I’ve got an appointment Friday to give blood at the Red Cross.”
“I thought you just did that.”
“I give every two months.”
“So one week, more or less, shouldn’t make a difference. Just talk to the woman. It’s a thousand dollars, Jennifer. How many turnip daisies and radish roses would you have to make to earn that kind of money? Need I remind you that you have bills to pay and that the small allowance you get from what your parents left you hardly covers your expenses? I don’t know how you manage as it is. Food is a necessity.”
“I eat,” Jennifer insisted. “As a matter of fact, you interrupted my breakfast.” She turned on the spigot and watched the crumbs disappearing off her plate in the stream of water. One piece of toast wasn’t much of a meal, and technically, Muffy had eaten part of it. At thirty, Jennifer was overly thin and still lost weight easily, a fact that no doubt irked the forty-something Monique.
Maybe she’d have another piece of toast if she could ever get the woman off the line. She might even scramble herself an egg. She rinsed her hands and turned off the water.
“How long does she need someone?” Jennifer asked.
“Who knows? She told me she didn’t expect to last the week. She’ll pay you upfront, of course.”
“Does she really expect to die?” Jennifer dried her hands on a dishtowel.
“Don’t we all?”
Not really. Like Saroyan, Jennifer was hoping God might make an exception in her case.
“I don’t know what her condition is,” Monique added. “She sounded fine on the phone, but she seems convinced her demise is imminent. Meet with her. If you don’t like her or her conditions, you don’t have to do it. She’s expecting you today at two o’clock.”
“On a Sunday?”
“On a Sunday.”
Chapter 2
Mary Bedford Ashton, dressed in an ankle-length black lace dress, her copper-tinted white hair drawn back and up in a mass of curls, looked as though she’d been in mourning since the turn of the last century. She also looked quite asleep, lounging comfortably in a rose-colored wing chair, her double chins resting one upon the other, pressing against a beaded black necklace that appeared to be trying hard to contain them.
Without a word, the housekeeper turned abruptly and left Jennifer in the dark, high-ceilinged sitting room of the Ashton mansion. Not a light was on, and although the heavy drapes of each of the four large windows were drawn wide, the room lay in shadowy darkness, stubbornly refusing to admit it was summer.
Jennifer smoothed the brushed cotton of her yellow, calf-length sundress. She felt out of place, as if one had to dress properly just to enter that elegantly appointed room, let alone to speak to its occupant.
She cleared her throat. When she didn’t get a response, she coughed as loudly as she thought polite. But Mrs. Ashton didn’t stir, not even a detectable breath.
Maybe she was already dead. She’d give the woman five minutes. If she hadn’t moved by then, she’d check for a pulse, have the housekeeper call 911, and get the heck out of there.
Even if the woman were only sleeping, as Jennifer prayed, the house was giving her the creeps. It was a magnificent antebellum mansion in Macon’s historic district. Richly carved wood graced the arched door frames and wall panels of the spacious room. Persian carpets defined two sitting areas, and massive oil paintings, dark in color or with age, hung on each wall.
The effect was breathtaking, but more than just visually. The room had an aura of unease. It made her feel that something might be lurking in its shadows.
Careful not to step on the carpet, Jennifer lit on the edge of a stiff, velvet love seat designed more for show than for comfort, and checked her watch. Four minutes and counting.
“Is she gone?”
The low, raspy words startled her. From where had they come? She and Mrs. Ashton were
the only ones in the room. She squinted in the woman’s direction. She didn’t appear to have moved a chin, but in the dim light, Jennifer thought she detected the flutter of one eyelid.
“She who?” Jennifer asked. “I’m here.”
“No, Melba. Has she gone?”
This time Jennifer saw Mrs. Ashton’s lips move, ever so slightly.
She nodded vigorously.
“Good.” Mrs. Ashton opened her eyes wide and pulled herself up, her extra chins disappearing in the process.
The woman had to be at least seventy, if not more, and undeniably overweight; but looking Jennifer full in the face in the dim light, her features soft and animated, her dark eyes catching what light there was, she was still beautiful. What must she have looked like when she was young?
“Monique Dupree told me you wanted to speak with me,” Jennifer offered tentatively, trying hard not to stare. “She said you wanted me to write something.”
“That’s right,” the woman told her, the faintest hint of a lisp tugging at her words. “I want you to chronicle my final days, every single detail. You see, when I’m murdered, I don’t want my killer to get away with it.”
Chapter 3
Mary Bedford Ashton is crazy was Jennifer’s first thought. Her second was I hope she’s crazy. Either way, the woman was not Jennifer’s problem, and she intended to keep it that way. Still, she couldn’t help asking one question.
“Who, exactly, wants you dead?”
“I can’t tell you without your solemn promise to do as I ask.”
“It’s been really nice meeting you, Mrs. Ashton,” Jennifer began, rising from her seat, “but I have things I have to do this afternoon. I must be going.”
“Sit!” The word came with such force that Jennifer fell back onto her seat. Both women turned toward the doorway to see if anyone had heard and come in, but no one was there.
“Please excuse my outburst, Miss Marsh. It’s such a pleasure to have you visit in my home,” Ashton drawled in a softer, more genteel voice, a wide, artificial smile parting her lips. “Let me pour you some tea.”
She pointed to the full silver service sitting on a table in front of her.
Jennifer didn’t need anything she might spill, not in that house, and not at that moment. “No thank you.”
“Very well.” The woman’s smile disappeared and she leaned forward with the indomitable will that only a lady of the deep South can muster. It put Jennifer in mind of her beloved grandmother. Such a sweet lady. Except when Jennifer had done something wrong. Then it was as though the heavens had broken open and the wrath of God—
“I feel I know you already, my dear child,” Mrs. Ashton said. “Let’s see. Your parents, God rest their souls, died in an automobile accident when you were a senior in college. Your dearest aspiration is to have your mystery novels published, and to that end, you belong to a weekly writers’ group that has five members including yourself. I also know that you’re romantically involved with Sam Culpepper, investigative reporter for The Macon Telegraph. And I know that you have been instrumental in the solution of several crimes of murder both here and in Atlanta.”
“How could you know—”
“I read the newspapers cover to cover, both The Macon Telegraph and the Atlanta Constitution, even occasionally that rag, the Atlanta Eye. That’s a lovely photo they use in the Telegraph when they mention you. A publicity shot?”
Jennifer nodded. That was Sam’s doing, his way of softening the blow whenever she got herself into trouble.
“Yes, it would be most appropriate inside the back cover of a novel. Quite wonderful. And, as you know, I’m related to your mentor.”
Her mentor?
“Betty assures me you’re quite talented.”
“Betty who?”
“Oh, that’s right. You call her Monique.” Mrs. Ashton dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a white lace handkerchief. “She took on airs after she published that book of hers, but she’s always been just plain Betty to me.”
Of course. Jennifer had almost forgotten. Monique had always been Monique to her, but her one book—published before Jennifer had met her—had come out under a pen name, and she had stubbornly adopted it. But Jennifer couldn’t fault her. Left with the choice, she would have opted for Monique, too.
“As I was saying, Betty tells me that luck has simply not been with you even though you work tirelessly toward your goal.
“I’m not crazy,” the woman added, apparently in response to the look on Jennifer’s face, which, in truth, was a reaction to the comment about Monique’s mentoring—she’d much prefer to think of herself as Monique’s peer—and the obvious fact that she’d been talking about her. It had nothing whatsoever to do with Mrs. Ashton’s mental state.
“If you’re in fear for your life, you need to go to the police,” Jennifer suggested.
“They won’t listen to me. Dementia, they’ll call it.”
Jennifer would call it paranoia.
“I have no real proof, you see, nothing they could charge anyone with.” Again, the woman leaned forward, this time conspiratorially, a note of desperation in her voice. “When I’m dead, I’m sure they intend to pass it off as natural causes. Well, I intend to see that they don’t.” She slapped the upholstered arm of her chair with such force that a tiny cloud of fiber poofed into the air.
Jennifer again caught herself looking toward the doorway to see if the housekeeper had heard that last outburst. Nobody was there, at least not that she could see. “You seem totally in control of your senses to me. I hardly think that anyone who speaks with you for more than ten minutes could be convinced otherwise.”
“You’re right, of course. But there have been extenuating circumstances.”
“What kind of circumstances?”
Mrs. Ashton clucked her tongue. “Nothing for you to be concerned about at this point, but my credibility has suffered some damage.”
“I see. Just what do you think the plan is? To kill you, I mean,” Jennifer said.
The older woman shook her head. “I’m not sure. Quite possibly poison in my food or drink. Or the injection of some substance naturally occurring in the body, perhaps insulin or maybe potassium. Make sure they remember to check for needle marks, and don’t let them forget to look between my toes and fingers. Those are easy to overlook.
“She might try drowning, I suppose,” the woman went on. “I’m only taking sponge baths for that very reason, so if I’m found in the bath, it’ll be a dead giveaway.” She laughed, obviously pleased with her pun. “Or maybe she’ll smother me in my sleep. I suffer from sleep apnea.”
Jennifer gave her a puzzled look.
“I stop breathing when I sleep. Then I start up again—at least I always have in the past. The apnea’s the best bet, I think. That’s what I would do if I were planning to murder myself. A well placed pillow and a little pressure... The doctor would never suspect a thing. And be sure, if it looks as though I’ve committed suicide, I haven’t. One last thing—if I disappear, I didn’t go willingly.”
Okay. Ten minutes of conversation was more than enough. The woman was certifiable.
“So,” Mrs. Ashton pressed, “I’ll expect you no later than tomorrow afternoon. That should give you plenty of time to get your things together. I definitely want you here before nightfall. I’m more vulnerable at night. Pack what you need. You can go back for the rest later, during the day. Or we’ll send out for whatever you forget. Supper is at seven. And don’t mention any of this to Melba on your way out. I haven’t told the staff yet that you’ll be staying with us. I simply don’t know whom to trust.”
“I can’t.”
“Nonsense. Of course you can.”
“I’d have to bring my computer.”
“No computers. Nothing electronic. We don’t want to tip anyone off as to what we’re up to. Besides, we don’t want anything that someone could access or distort. A plain, spiral-bound notebook will do. All entries are to be made in pen
in your own writing. Oh, and make sure you get one small enough to keep on your person at all times.”
“What about when I sleep?”
“Especially when you sleep.”
“Even if I were to accept your...invitation, I won’t be free before Tuesday.”
Mrs. Ashton shook her head vigorously. “Tuesday might be too late. Come here.” Her tone was such that Jennifer felt she had no choice but to obey.
Suddenly, the woman rose to her feet, which put her just under Jennifer’s chin, and grabbed her hands. She stuffed a wad of hundred dollar bills that must have been concealed in the folds of her skirt into Jennifer’s palm and forced her fingers around it.
Jennifer squirmed. She hated taking money from a desperate person for something that seemed as if it should be a favor. But favors only passed between friends, she reminded herself. Besides, the woman wasn’t competent enough to be handing out money, whether it belonged to her or not. And Jennifer hadn’t yet decided to accept the offer.
“I can’t,” she protested again, trying to shove the money back into the woman’s grasp.
Mrs. Ashton clamped an iron fist over Jennifer’s hand. “Yes, you can. I certainly don’t need it. How much do you think I can spend in the week or so I have left? Besides, I know what you’re like, Jennifer Marsh. You’re as transparent as you are idealistic.” Her fingers pressed against Jennifer’s flesh, her eyes steely. “If you don’t help me, you won’t be able to live with yourself, and you won’t be able to do a thing when she kills me. You’ll feel that my blood is on your hands. Can you live with that?”
Guilt was something Jennifer was well acquainted with. One way or another, she could find a way to make herself responsible for almost everything that happened on earth. But not this woman’s death. She wouldn’t let herself get sucked into that trap.
Still, Mrs. Ashton seemed genuinely afraid. Alone and afraid. But even if someone actually wanted her dead, would they go so far as to kill her? Wanting and doing were two entirely different things, as she well knew herself.
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