Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  My dad knew better. Although he knew that no dog would ever replace Atticus, he also knew that a new puppy would be healing. Three months after I said good-bye to my first dog, I came home from work one day to find Dad sitting at my kitchen table.

  “Hi, sweetie,” he said. “How was work?”

  “Same old, same old.” I kicked off my heels and flexed my cramped toes. “Just another day in cubicle paradise.” I kissed him on the cheek. As I did, I heard a noise. “What was that?”

  I glimpsed a white ball of fluff in my father’s hands. A ball of fluff that moved. “Dad?” I placed my hands on my hips.

  He offered a sheepish grin as he slowly opened his large hands to reveal a white fur ball with three black spots in the center. Two of those black spots stared at me.

  “Dad, no.” I stepped back. “I said I didn’t want another dog.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but I couldn’t resist her.”

  “Great. Then take her home. Explain that one to Mom.”

  “Just give her a chance.”

  “C’mon, Dad, how could you do that to Atticus?”

  My father gave me a tender look. “Atticus wouldn’t want you to be lonely.”

  I blinked away the rush of tears.

  The puppy whimpered.

  “It’s okay,” Dad said in a soothing tone as he cradled the tiny fur ball against his chest. He stroked her fluffy head. “You’re okay.”

  She licked his hand and wagged her tail.

  Dad set her down, and she scampered straight to me, wagging her white tail that curved over the top of her back and rubbing against my ankles.

  I craned my neck at the ceiling, staring hard at a small spot I had missed when I painted the month before.

  The fur ball licked my toes.

  My head snapped down to see two big black eyes gazing up at me adoringly.

  That did it. I reached down and scooped the puppy up in my arms.

  “Hello, sweetheart. I’m your new mom.”

  * * *

  I ruffled Gracie’s fur and kissed her on the nose as we snuggled on the couch. She licked my cheek. Then we both took a little snooze.

  Half an hour later, the doorbell woke us up. Gracie jumped off me and raced to the front door, barking loudly.

  “Okay, girl, settle down. I’m coming.”

  Gracie continued to bark. She always does whenever anyone comes to the house or even simply strolls by our little bungalow. Best alarm system ever.

  “It’s okay, Gracie,” a familiar feminine voice called from the other side of the door. “It’s just us.”

  I opened the door to find the remaining two Musketeers grinning on my doorstep.

  “Is it true?” Char asked. “Did you really kick the guy in the cojones?”

  “Not kicked. Kneed. This town needs a more accurate grapevine.” I ushered my friends inside.

  “Well, I’ve got the fruit of the vine.” Char raised a bottle of red.

  “And I’ve got the grapes and cheese.” Sharon held up a covered plate. “So spill.”

  After letting Gracie into the backyard, I brought my Musketeer pals up to date on what had really gone down with Tom in the coffee shop, telling them how he had barged in yelling crazy things while Tavish and I were talking.

  “Wait.” Sharon held up her hand. “You and the drop-dead gorgeous celebrity author with that yummy English accent were hanging out?”

  “No. He just happened to come into Andersen’s while I was working, and we got to chatting.”

  Sharon exchanged a knowing glance with Char. “Uh-huh.”

  “Chatting about what?” Char asked.

  “What do you think? Writing. We are both writers, after all.”

  “True. Is that all you talked about?”

  “No.” I helped myself to some cheese and crackers. “We briefly talked about England too. He said if I ever came to the Cotswolds, he’d show me around.”

  “Ha! He likes you! I knew it!” Sharon crowed. “I could tell when he first met you.”

  “No, he doesn’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Teddie, you can be so clueless sometimes.” She took a sip of her wine.

  “And you watch too many Hallmark movies.”

  “Teddie’s got a boyfriend! Teddie’s got a boyfriend!” Char said in a singsong voice, reverting to fourth grade. “Teddie and Tavish sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

  “You guys are nuts.” I shook my head. “Time to swap out those romance novels you’re always reading for a good spy story or whodunit. Maybe even a self-help book. Can’t a man and a woman—who happen to be in the same profession, incidentally—have a friendly conversation without it being considered romantic?”

  “Depends,” Sharon said.

  “On what?”

  “On whether one of them has the hots for the other.”

  “I don’t have the hots for Tavish Bentley.”

  “Well then, you must be dead. The man’s pretty darned swoon-worthy.” Sharon fanned herself. “If I wasn’t happily married, watch out.” She fixed her bluebell eyes on mine. “Besides, I’m not talking about you.”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake.” I left the room to let Gracie back into the house.

  My girlfriends are always trying to find me a man, even though I tell them I am perfectly happy without one. It’s not as if I’ve never dated or had a boyfriend—just none that stuck. I am not the girly-girl type who giggles, flirts, and plays the dating game. Never have been. Even in high school. And that’s fine by me. More than fine. I have my sweet little house, my beloved Gracie-girl, good friends and family, my health, and work that I love. I am grateful for the life I have now. I am grateful for life.

  I thought back to my pre-cancer world when I worked at my government-cubicle job. Yes, it was a “good” job in the sense that I had great benefits and earned a decent salary—enough to buy my thousand-square-foot 1950s bungalow more than a decade ago, for which I’m thankful. However, after my breast cancer diagnosis five years ago—and beating it, thank you, God—I viewed the world through different eyes. Life is short and things can change in a heartbeat. Breast lump. None of us knows how much time we have on this planet. While I am here—for however long that may be—I want to spend my time doing things I love. Things that bring me joy. Things that matter.

  That’s why once I recovered from surgery and chemotherapy and my oncologist gave me the all clear, I took early retirement and spent six blissful weeks in Europe seeing the famous sights I’d only hungered after in books and movies before then. Char tagged along for the first twelve days in Italy, where we devoured as much art, pizza, and pasta as our bellies would allow, but after that, I was on my own exploring my heritage in Denmark and Norway, where the beauty of the fjords knocked me out. I spent my final two world-traveling weeks in England and France, where I wept at the D-day beaches in Normandy and fell in love with the picturesque English countryside, thatched-roof cottages, and decadent cream teas.

  When I returned home, I picked up my pen and began writing my first novel. I’ve been writing ever since. Although my sweet cozy mysteries about Kate Kristiansen and her canine companion Kallie will never win a Pulitzer, I have a blast writing them and my readers love them. They send me cards and letters saying my books provide a delightful escape from the hard things in life. Like a breakup, the loss of a job, cancer, the death of a loved one.

  In my book, that’s better than being on the best-seller list.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

  I wondered if Tavish ever got such letters. Then I thought about what Sharon had said about Tavish liking me. Could there be anything to that? Of the three of us, Sharon is the oldest, the one who has dated the most, and the only married Musketeer, so she probably has the most insight into the male mind. Then I remembered Kristi, Tavish’s dead ex-fiancée—Kristi of the surgically enhanced bazoombas. I dropped my head to take in the flatness that is my chest.

  Nah.

  Returning to Sharon a
nd Char, I set down a plate of fattigman bakkels on the hassock between us. “Have some cookies, and let’s drop this whole imaginary romance discussion. Tavish is not interested in me that way, and vice versa. We’re simply friendly colleagues with a murder in common.”

  I wasn’t about to tell my friends that after the fracas with Kristi’s ex at the bakery and my subsequent Wonder Woman action, Tavish had invited me to dinner tomorrow night. They would totally misconstrue it.

  Chapter Five

  As I picked through my collection of scarves the next evening, trying to find one that would work with the green batik dress I was wearing with its cascading swirls of fuchsia and teal, I heard my mom’s voice calling from the kitchen.

  “Teddie, I need to borrow some milk.”

  “Help yourself,” I called back, praying she would just take the milk and leave.

  Please, God.

  Unfortunately, the man upstairs never seems to answer my prayers when it comes to my mother. Her kitten heels clicked down the hall to my bedroom. She appeared in my doorway in black capris and a formfitting leopard-print top, holding a small ceramic milk jug.

  “Where are you going?” Her waxed eyebrows lifted. “Do you have a date?”

  “No.” I selected a long fuchsia silk scarf from the back of my scarf rack and wound it loosely around my neck. “I’m just having dinner with one of my writing friends.”

  “A male friend?”

  “No.” I crossed my fingers beneath the scarf. Sorry, God. I don’t like lying and only do so occasionally to my mother. It’s called self-preservation. “You don’t know her. She lives in Racine and writes feminist fiction.”

  “Oh.” Mom’s collagen-enhanced lips turned down. “Well, have fun.” As she turned and headed back down the hall, I heard her mutter, “If feminists can have fun.”

  Half an hour later I pulled into the parking lot of Caldwell’s, a popular lakefront restaurant in Racine known for their seafood and prime rib. Tavish had wanted to pick me up, but since I preferred not to give Sharon or Char any more ammunition for their overheated romantic imaginings, I’d told him I would meet him at the restaurant instead.

  When I walked in, Tavish was seated at the bar, having a drink. His eyes widened when he saw me. “Wow! You look stunning. Those are great colors on you.”

  “Thanks.” He wasn’t too shabby himself in his crisp black jeans and a white button-down, but as his colleague on one of the bottom rungs of the writing ladder, I didn’t want him to think I was sucking up to him, so I didn’t return the compliment. “Do you mind if we go right in? I’m starving.”

  “Of course.” He picked up his drink, and the compact maître d’ with salt-and-pepper hair led us to a table with a great view of Lake Michigan. Diners stared at the famous author and a ripple of recognition and whispers spread through the restaurant, but I did my best to ignore it, choosing to focus on my dinner companion instead. We ordered a calamari appetizer to tide us over until Tavish’s prime rib and my fresh perch dinner arrived.

  “So how long have you been writing?” Tavish asked as we ate our calamari.

  “Personally, all my life, but professionally only a few years.” I took a sip of wine. “I’m a late bloomer. My first book wasn’t published until I turned forty.”

  He clinked his glass with mine. “Great way to kick off the fabulous forties.”

  “How about you? How old were you when your first book came out?”

  “Twenty-seven. I had been working as an engineer since university—miserably, I might add. I hated my job but couldn’t afford to quit, so I spent my nights and weekends doing what I loved. Six months later I finished my first manuscript and began sending it round to publishing houses.”

  “And?”

  “They all rejected it.” He offered up a wry smile “Thirteen altogether. Happened again with my second effort—except fifteen publishers rejected that one. Luckily, one of the literary agents I had queried took a chance on me and offered to represent me. Under his brilliant editorial guidance, my third try became my first published book. The first two publishers rejected it, but the third offered me a contract, and I’ve been with them ever since.”

  “Was your first novel a best seller?”

  “No. Etched in Blood had only modest sales. It wasn’t until my third book, Blood-Soaked Flowers, that I hit the best seller list.”

  “And how old were you when that happened?”

  He blushed. “Thirty.”

  “Ah, a boy wonder.”

  “Not compared to these days,” he said. “I keep reading about these eighteen- to twenty-year-olds with huge YouTube and Twitter followings scoring great book deals and releasing instant best sellers.”

  “So that’s my problem. Guess I’d better start my own YouTube channel.”

  We discussed books and the vicissitudes of writing. As we chatted, I thought how nice it was to have a fellow writer to talk to in person. Other than my mom’s yoga instructor Helen, who has self-published a beginning yoga book, I am the only author in Lake Potawatomi. I’ve made a few writing friends at some of the writing conferences I’ve attended in the past couple of years, but none of them live nearby.

  Neither does Tavish.

  True, I told my inner nag, but we’re talking now and I’m enjoying the moment, so stuff it.

  The waiter delivered our meals, and we focused on the food. The lake perch melted in my mouth, and Tavish declared his prime rib the best he had ever had. After the waiter brought the dessert menu, Tavish leaned in and said, “This has been a lovely evening. I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.”

  “Me too. I mean, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you too. It’s not often I get to talk to another writer.”

  “I’d like to do this again. Are you by chance free tomorrow evening?”

  “You want to talk writing some more?”

  “No. I’d like to get to know you more, not just the writer.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I’m asking you out.”

  “On a date?”

  “I believe that’s what they call it.”

  “Seriously? You remember I don’t have breasts, right?”

  “Breasts are overrated.”

  Well, I know that, but most men do not. “I don’t think I’m really your type, Tavish.”

  “What is my type?”

  “Well …” I lifted my shoulders. “Kristi, for instance.” Recalling the Boobsey twin in the tight bandage dress, I said, “I’m nothing like her.”

  “I certainly hope not.” He expelled a sigh. “I don’t mean to sound cavalier or speak ill of the dead. Kristi’s death is a terrible thing. I still cannot believe someone killed her.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand. “Nor can I begin to imagine how awful it must be for her family and those who loved her.” Opening his eyes, he held mine with a steady gaze. “But I am not one of those people. At this age—I’m forty-one, by the way—it is embarrassing to think oneself in love and then to realize it was simply infatuation. I confess, Kristi’s youth and beauty blinded me initially.” He pressed his lips together. “As a result, I acted rashly and impulsively. I knew the proposal was a mistake almost before the words were out of my mouth.”

  “So why didn’t you say something?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh.”

  His eyes locked on mine. So did someone else’s. Off to my right a few tables away, a middle-aged woman with neon-copper hair, a color not to be found in nature, and clad in a pink floral muumuu glared at me.

  “Um, Tavish, do you happen to know that lady?” I slid my eyes in her direction.

  He followed my gaze. “Oh no,” he groaned. “What is she doing here?”

  Once the woman realized Tavish had seen her, she beamed, patted her bad dye job, and jumped up from her seat. She hurried over, her pink muumuu slapping against her sturdy calves, clutching a copy of Her Blood Weeps.

  “Hello, Tavish,” she gushed, ignoring me. “So nice to see you again. Y
ou look so handsome tonight.”

  “Annabelle, you know you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “I won’t stay long. I just have a teensy-weensy favor to ask.” She set the glossy hardcover on the table in front of Tavish with her manicured hand—a dimpled hand sporting a small white appliquéd daisy atop her pink-polished pinkie. “Would you autograph this for me? I have every one of your books, you know. All signed first editions.”

  Tavish carefully placed his hands in his lap. “You know I can’t do that. You’re not supposed to have any contact with me.”

  “Oh, what do those police know? I’m not doing any harm. And I haven’t made physical contact.” She sent him a suggestive smile. “It’s not like I touched you.”

  I could tell she wanted to, however, by the way her blue-eye- shadowed eyes devoured him. Then I realized. Misery. This woman was Tavish’s Annie Wilkes, only with makeup.

  “Excuse me,” I said gently. “Annabelle, is it? Perhaps it would be best if you left. I know you don’t want to cause a scene.”

  “You shut your pie hole, missy!” She shot me a venomous glare. “I wasn’t talking to you!”

  “Whoa.” I drew back.

  Tavish scraped his chair back and stood up, cell phone in hand. “That’s enough, Annabelle.” His mouth set in a grim line. “You need to go. Now. Or I’m calling the police.”

  “All I want is for you to sign my stinkin’ book for my collection,” she screeched, her round face flushed and her massive bosom heaving. “Is that too much to ask, Mr. Highfalutin New York Author?”

  Diners turned and stared. Several pulled out their phones and snapped pictures, including a scruffy millennial male whose lips pursed in distaste. Those pursed lips and scruffy clothing seemed familiar … then it clicked into place—the millennial was a reporter for a regional newspaper.

  The diminutive maître d’ hurried over. “Madam, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, shorty? You and what army?”

  I considered pulling out my Wonder Woman cape again, but I wasn’t sure I would be as successful this time. My knee would not have the same effect on Lady Muumuu. Thankfully, Brady and Char entered the dining room just then, saving me from having to find out.