Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  The trap door was hinged to the floor on one side, and with the luxury of two hands free I managed to close it over Janice’s hands and hold it down. The door was made of thin plywood, however, and she pushed it up easily, but dropped her gun in the process. I heard it clank to the floor and knew I had a few seconds grace.

  I thought of all the practice I’d had with last minute deadlines and tried to come up with a plan. I knew I didn’t have the strength to keep the door down with my hands and I wasn’t about to risk sitting on it and taking a bullet in my seat. I stayed at the edge, sweeping my eyes across the attic for something heavy enough to keep the trap door closed.

  A shaft of light from the tiny attic window bounced off the edge of something shiny less than a foot away and caught my attention for an instant. My box cutter. I paused for what must have been less time than hydrogen was a metal in Eric’s target chamber. I picked up the knife and removed the safety shield.

  Janice was back near the top of the ladder, presumably with her gun. I twisted the knife in my hand, feeling the ribbed handle and the short blade. I swallowed hard at what I might have to do to save my life. I wished I knew more about guns, like how many bullets Janice’s model held or whether guns would work after an eight-foot drop to a hard wood floor. I thought of tricking her into firing wildly, using up the bullets that were left, but I didn’t have a clue how to do that.

  I’d never before deliberately hurt a person physically. I was willing to risk a lot rather than use my box cutter on anything but sealing tape, but my brain was succumbing to my will to live. I took a deep breath and blocked out the knowledge that the person below me was another human being.

  I came down as hard as I could with my knife, catching Janice’s hands and arms. I closed my eyes and struck again and again, aware that I was meeting flesh every time. Janice screamed and so did I, but I didn’t stop until I heard her fall. It was at the same time that I heard the police sirens.

  ~*~

  Without the benefit of an anatomy class, I’d managed to slash Janice’s wrists and arms and the side of her neck, enough for her to lose her balance on the ladder.

  The bloody image that met my eyes when I looked down at her was more than I could bear. I fell back on the attic floor and leaned against the wall, fast becoming the most popular resting place in my apartment. Below me I heard a cacophony of sounds I’d heard only on television or in movies—police walkie-talkies, loud static, and hurried phrases about stretchers and IVs.

  Blue, white, and red lights from the emergency vehicles in Galigani’s driveway flashed across the dark attic, creating a patriotic image strangely like the summer’s fireworks display. I stared down at my body and saw that my own hands and arms were bloody. I became aware of a sharp pain in my left shoulder and realized that one of Janice’s bullets had hit me.

  Before I even heard their voices, I felt the presence of Rose, Matt, and a paramedic near me in the attic. I was shivering and babbling, asking if Janice was alive or dead, not sure which answer I wanted to hear.

  “She’s going to be fine,” Rose said, putting a blanket around me. “And so are you. He says the bullet isn’t even in you.”

  Rose’s voice had the comforting sound of a mother comforting a child who’s just fallen from a swing. And whoever the “he” was that she referred to—Matt or the paramedic or God—I felt a wave of relief and a surge of confidence that I was still alive.

  Rose was sitting behind me, trying to enfold my wide body within her narrow frame. Matt was in front of me, holding my cold, clammy fingers between his own warm hands. The paramedic had torn away the sleeve of my tunic top, strapped something to my arm and dabbed a foul-smelling chemical in the vicinity of my shoulder.

  “We have some surface wounds,” he said in a soothing bedside voice. “Try to relax. That’s it. Just one more spot.”

  Apparently, in my debut as an action figure I’d also slashed my own arm a few inches above my elbow.

  A feeling of safety came over me as I focused on the arms of my friend around my waist, a friend who’d come to spray me with perfume. I saw the face of Matt in front of me, tender and caring, and felt the skillful hands of the paramedic at my side.

  I heard the bells from Saint Anthony’s Church. The Angelus. Six o’clock.

  “I made my deadline,” I said, and listened with gratitude to the laughter of my attic guests.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Matt and I sat in the Galigani living room three weeks after Janice’s arraignment. Rose and Frank had invited us to dinner to sample one of Frank’s specialties, pasta primavera.

  Matt had been called out on another murder case just before he picked me up, but he refused to divulge a word about it. I didn’t pursue the topic, hoping he would reward me by telling me more about the final resolution of the Bensen and Leder cases.

  I knew that Janice had signed a confession in the hospital. I understood her frustration with Eric, even if I didn’t accept her murderous resolution. After sticking with him through the long graduate school ordeal, Janice was about to be served divorce papers and for all she knew, watch Eric hook up with another woman. She knew enough about the dilemma he faced regarding the falsified data to try to make it look as though a colleague killed him.

  Although Matt tried to avoid it, we’d pressured him into tying up the loose ends of the case for us.

  “Janice owned two guns,” Matt said. “One had been her father’s when he was alive, and wasn’t re-registered to her. Her own licensed gun, which she’d never used, was a perfect cover.”

  “Why did she kill Doctor Leder?” Rose asked.

  “He’d figured out the significance of the last three characters just as Gloria did. Janice said she’d seen Eric hit the keys in his last moment alive, but she figured that even if he wrote her name in plain English she’d taken care of it by deleting what was on the screen. Janice’s plan might have worked if Gloria hadn’t suggested retrieving that file.”

  I covered my embarrassment by faking a slight bow from the waist as I sat in one of Rose’s antique chairs, opposite Matt.

  “I’m sure Leder was anxious to clear his team of suspicion of murder at least,” I said. “He probably confronted her without thinking of anything but salvaging what he could of their reputations.”

  “And he lost,” Frank said, shaking his head and wiping his hands on his apron.

  I smelled the wonderful combination of broccoli, asparagus, green peppers, zucchini, and mushrooms and knew we were about to be called to a feast. On the sideboard I saw a white Luberto’s box and guessed that was Rose’s part of the meal. Matt had brought wine and sparkling cider. And, difficult as it was, I obeyed my friends’ orders to bring nothing, allowing myself to be pampered while my arm was in a sling.

  I felt completely relaxed partly because I was surrounded by my friends in an elegant setting, and partly from the pain medicine I still had to take for my wounded arm and shoulder. For precaution, I’d been advised not to drive and to keep my left arm in a soft fabric holster for a few weeks.

  I’d learned a few things about Matt in the time after my contract ended. He had a quick wit and a wonderful sense of humor, a degree in criminology from Boston College, and a sister with a house on Cape Cod. He never used after-shave and his personal car was a steel blue Toyota Camry with a tidy interior. Although I hadn’t converted him to classical music, he’d agreed to go to the Messiah concerts with me and Rose and Frank. For my part, I was letting him teach me about jazz. He loved improvisational music and knew a dozen little places in Boston and Cambridge to listen to it.

  I also learned a few things about myself in the meantime, and even made a couple of real decisions, like staying in Revere, but moving to a house of my own by the spring. I started to put Josephine’s negative voice respectfully to rest and thank her for her intelligence and generosity. And at some moment when he was most vulnerable to my requests and least expecting it, I planned to give Matt the little black book with Al’s handwri
ting so we could work on it together.

  Matt took my good arm, walked to the table with me and held out a chair for me to sit on. I looked at him sideways and raised my eyebrows.

  “Just until your arm heals,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said, and sat down next to him.

  ~*~

  After dinner, Matt and I moved into the living room while Rose and Frank prepared cappuccinos from their shiny black espresso maker. I walked over to the window and looked out on Adams Street, where a soft rain was falling on the immaculately groomed Galigani lawn and gardens. Mums in orange and yellow, and boxes of bright pink impatiens lined the area around their large white clapboard house. Across the street, the sight of a swing set in a neighbor’s front yard and an old couple sitting on a covered porch two houses down reminded me of a Hallmark card, the family life I never had, but hoped was possible, even at my age. Not the swing set, of course, but the shared peace and contentment of people who love each other.

  I turned back to the room and my eyes fell on a newspaper resting on a beautiful mahogany end table next to the couch. I saw a caption that intrigued me and picked up the paper.

  “Helium Reserves Sold to Hi-Tech Company,” I read.

  I walked toward the center of the room, paraphrasing the article as I crossed the carpet to where Matt was sitting.

  “Helium is necessary for hundreds of cutting-edge products, like MRI imaging machines in hospitals and switching devices for the next generation of computers. And according to this, it looks like Dave Johnson beat out Tom Bradley in the race to get the government’s supply of helium.”

  I continued reading until I realized that my friends weren’t paying attention to me. I folded the paper and made one final comment.

  “I’ll bet Bradley is ready to kill him,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” Rose said.

  Matt was on his feet in a flash. He whipped the paper out of my hands and passed it to Rose, who passed it to Frank. Frank took the paper, stepped on the lever at the bottom of the plastic trash container in the kitchen, and tossed it in.

  “Dessert’s ready,” he said.

  “It’s just an expression,” I said, leaning over to fix the collar of Matt’s shirt. “I’m not looking for a helium murder.”

  ~*~

  Gloria’s adventures continue in The Helium Murder, the next Periodic Table Mystery, as well as six additional novels and several short stories.

  About the Author

  Camille Minichino, a retired physicist turned writer, is the author of more than twenty mystery novels in four series: the Periodic Table Mysteries; the Miniature Mysteries (writing as Margaret Grace); the Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries (writing as Ada Madison); and the Postmistress Mysteries (writing as Jean Flowers). She has also written short stories and articles.

  Camille is past president and board member of three major writers organizations and currently serves on the Board of NorCal MWA. She teaches writing in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  Connect with Camille at the following sites:

  Email: camille@minichino.com

  Website: http://www.minichino.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/camille.minichino

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/minichino

  Books by Camille Minichino

  Periodic Table Mystery Series

  The Hydrogen Murder

  The Helium Murder

  The Lithium Murder

  The Beryllium Murder

  The Boric Acid Murder

  The Carbon Murder

  The Nitrogen Murder

  The Oxygen Murder

  Stand-Alone Mystery

  Killer in the Cloister

  Multi-Author and Boxed Sets

  Six Scattered Stories

  Happy Homicides

  Nonfiction

  How to Live With an Engineer

  Cozy Food

  Books by Margaret Grace

  Miniature Mystery Series

  Murder in Miniature

  Mayhem in Miniature

  Malice in Miniature

  Mourning in Miniature

  Monster in Miniature

  Mix-Up in Miniature

  Madness in Miniature

  Manhattan in Miniature

  Books by Ada Madison

  Professor Sophie Knowles Mystery Series

  The Square Root of Murder

  The Probability of Murder

  A Function of Murder

  The Quotient of Murder

  Books by Jean Flowers

  Postmistress Mystery Series

  Death Takes Priority

  Cancelled by Death (coming 2016)

  Addressed to Kill (coming 2017)

  Retirement Can Be Murder

  A Baby Boomer Mystery, Book One

  By Susan Santangelo

  Carol Andrews dreads her husband Jim’s upcoming retirement more than a root canal without Novocain. She can’t imagine anything worse than having an at-home husband with time on his hands and nothing to fill it – except interfering in the day-to-day activities of their household and driving her crazy. Until her plans to stall Jim’s retirement result in her husband being suspected of murdering his retirement coach.

  ONE

  The hardest years of a marriage are the ones following the wedding.

  Here’s an amazing weight-loss tip for all the women in America: an out-of-body experience makes you look thinner. Forget about vertical vs. horizontal stripes. I’m telling you, an out-of-body occurrence does the trick. Plus, it can be quite a pleasant sensation to look down and see a movie starring…you. What’s not to like?

  Of course, there’s a down side to my weight-loss tip. Out-of-body experiences are triggered by a traumatic event, like the panicky phone call I’d just gotten from Jim, My Beloved Husband of thirty-six years, telling me he’d found his retirement coach, Davis Rhodes, dead at his kitchen table. When Jim said that the police were grilling him like he was a prime suspect in a crime, rather than an innocent person who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, I could feel my mind and body separate. This was immediately followed by an overwhelming sense of guilt.

  Because the whole rotten mess Jim found himself in was my fault.

  Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t murder Rhodes, although I will admit I’d often harbored dark thoughts about the guy because of the havoc he caused in our lives. However, I was responsible for hooking up Jim and Davis Rhodes in the first place. Well, to be honest, I manipulated Jim into consulting Rhodes about his impending retirement. The thought of having my dear husband around the house 24/7, with little to do except sit in his recliner with the television remote clutched in his fist, appealed to me as much as a root canal without Novocain. On second thought, I’d definitely take the root canal.

  I made the decision to stall Jim’s retirement as long as I could. By whatever means I could come up with. I admit I was pretty desperate, but I told myself I was doing it for his own good. Jim was too young to retire and have his mind turn to mush from lack of use. Any other well-meaning, loving, slightly devious wife would do the same thing. Right?

  How was I to know that the chain of events I’d innocently set in motion a few weeks ago would end up this way?

  ~*~

  Four Weeks Earlier

  “I’m really getting worried about Jim.”

  There was no response from my luncheon buddies, who also happened to be my three best friends.

  I figured they hadn’t heard me, so I raised my voice to be heard above the lunchtime din. The patrons at Maria’s Trattoria were extra loud today.

  “I said…”

  Before I had a chance to finish my sentence, Mary Alice interrupted me. “I don’t know why we came here for lunch. It’s always so noisy. You can’t even carry on a decent conversation. And the food is so high in cholesterol and calories, it can’t be good for us.”

  I rolled my eyes at Claire and Nancy, silently telegraphing, “There she goes again.” Mary Alice, be
ing a nurse, often went into graphic detail about high cholesterol, osteoporosis, cancer risk, high blood pressure, hot flashes, menopause, the benefits and risks of soy, and other assorted topics that are part of the natural aging process we’re all going through. Guaranteed to kill the appetite, although I doubt that was her intention.

  “Why don’t you pick the place for next month then, Mary Alice?” snapped Claire. “You always complain when I pick it. And you know we like to come to Maria’s because she taught all our children before she retired and opened this restaurant.” She rummaged in her purse for her glasses so she could read the menu. “Damn it. I always leave the reading ones at home.” She held the menu out as far as her arm could reach and squinted. “Are there any specials today?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” My very best friend Nancy waved her perfectly manicured hand to get the attention of a passing waitress, who ignored her. “You know we’re all going to get salads anyway. We always get salads. I think I’ll have the Caesar salad this time.

  “Did you hear about the new facelift technique?” Nancy continued, changing the subject as usual. “It’s called a contour thread lift. Supposedly it’s the ideal procedure for forty-to-fifty-five-year olds with premature sagging of the upper neck and jowl area.”

  She checked her face in a small mirrored compact that cost as much as one week’s worth of groceries for the average family. “It’s being touted as a way to look younger without the risk and recovery period of traditional face lifts. And it can be adjusted when the face starts to sag so the results are constant. I’m thinking of going for a consultation. Anybody want to come with me?”