Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  The disinterested clerk, who I assumed was Jewel, waved her hand toward the rows of comics. “We’ve got lots of Spider-Man. Take your pick.” She bent her green head back over her book.

  “I’m sorry,” Char said, with what sounded like genuine regret in her voice, “but I’ve never been in a comic store before, and it’s a little overwhelming. Could you show me exactly where the Spider-Man books are and maybe even recommend a few you think he might like?”

  The clerk set her book down on the glass counter top with a sigh and shuffled over to us in flip-flops, holey jeans, and a Captain Marvel T-shirt bearing a name tag that said Jewel. “How old is your brother?” she asked. “And what Spider-Man universe does he prefer?”

  “Augie’s twenty-six,” Char said, “and I don’t have a clue. I didn’t even know there were different universes. Sorry. Are there maybe some new Spider-Mans you can recommend?”

  “Excuse me, young lady,” I interrupted, dropping my voice to a lower register so she wouldn’t recognize it from my phone call the day before, “would you mind if I sit down and read my book while you’re helping my daughter? My arthritis is killing me today.”

  Jewel barely looked at me. “Have a seat.” She jerked her green head to two worn blue corduroy easy chairs nearby. “That’s what those are for.”

  “Thank you.” I plopped down with an exaggerated sigh, rummaged through my tote, and pulled out my book as I listened to the two of them discussing all things Spider-Man.

  “I took my baby brother to the first Spider-Man movie with Tobey Maguire when he was eight,” Char said. “That’s what got him hooked.”

  “Good movie,” Jewel said, “but I like the Andrew Garfield ones better.”

  C’mon Char, I willed my best friend telepathically, don’t go off on a movie tangent. Bring it back to the brother connection to get her talking about Harley. Then you can segue into Annabelle.

  “Augie liked those ones too, but I think the attraction for him was Emma Stone. He really had the hots for her.” Char snickered. “Of course, he was eighteen, and you know brothers and their hormones.”

  “Do I,” Jewel said. “My brother’s forty-seven and his hormones are still all over the place. The dude can’t keep it in his pants.”

  “Is he single or married?” Char asked nonchalantly.

  Jewel shot a suspicious look at Char, who remained the picture of innocence and continued right on talking as if she were simply making casual conversation. “Augie’s single,” Char said, “but that’s just because he hasn’t met the right woman yet. He’s a sweetheart. Some woman is going to be very lucky someday.”

  “Unlike the women in my brother’s life,” Jewel said, sotto voce. “One’s dead and one’s pregnant.”

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry.” Char fluttered her hands and acted flustered. “I mean, I’m sorry about the dead woman, not the one who’s pregnant.”

  “Yeah, well, you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas,” Jewel said dismissively. “Now let’s check out these Spider-Man comics.” She pulled several from the rack, and the two spent the next several minutes discussing the relative merits of one comic book over another. In the end, Char selected five.

  As Jewel passed by me on her way to the register, I pretended to have fallen asleep and let my copy of Her Blood Weeps fall off my lap and onto the fake-wood floor. I startled awake at the loud thump. “Oops, must have fallen asleep.” I strained forward to reach for the heavy hardcover at my feet and groaned. “Miss, could you get my book for me, please? I’m having trouble picking it up with my arthritis.”

  “Sure.” Jewel bent down to retrieve it. Seeing the title and the author, she stiffened and extended the book to me with a curt nod. “Here you go.”

  “I just love Tavish Bentley, don’t you?” I said in my lower senior voice. “His books are always so exciting.”

  “I guess. I haven’t read any in a while.”

  “Oh, you just have to read this new one,” I said. “It’s so good.”

  Char rejoined us. “Mom, are you pushing Her Blood Weeps again?” She turned to Jewel and winked. “You’ll have to excuse my mother; she’s a Tavish Bentley evangelist. She thinks the whole world should read his books.”

  “I used to like them,” Jewel said, “but my frickin’ sister-in-law totally ruined them for me.”

  “How?” Char asked curiously, as we followed her to the register. “Ooh, is she one of those who gives away the ending before you finish the book? I hate that.”

  “Nah.” Jewel rang up the comic books. “She just went a little cray-cray and got obsessive.”

  Char handed Jewel two twenties as the bell over the front door jangled.

  “Hey, sis,” a sickeningly familiar voice called out. “Can you loan me fifty bucks?”

  Harley. I poked Char in the ribs and slouched even more. Turning off to the side, my heart hammering loudly, I affected an absorbed interest in a Wonder Woman action figure as Hulking Harley and the pregnant woman with him approached. I needn’t have worried. Harley did not even notice me. The invisibility cloak worked.

  “I’m. With. A. Customer.” Jewel carefully enunciated each word so the Incredible Hulk might understand.

  “Sorry,” I heard Harley say to Char, “I didn’t see you there.” There was a pause, and I just knew he was checking my best friend out, but I also knew better than to turn around. The invisibility cloak might fade under scrutiny. Harley continued in what he must have thought was a seductive tone, “Although I don’t know how I could have missed seeing you.”

  I wanted to hurl, and knowing Char, she did too.

  “Babe,” a plaintive voice whined, “I don’t feel good. I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  “Well, go to the damn bathroom,” he said. “You know where it is.”

  “And make sure you clean up after yourself,” Jewel yelled after the laborious retreating footsteps.

  “We have to be going,” Char said, taking her bag of comics. “Thanks so much for all your help.”

  “Don’t forget your change,” Jewel said.

  “Oh, right.” Char released a nervous giggle. “Thanks.”

  “Aw, do you have to leave so soon?” Harley said.

  “Yes, we have another appointment. Come along, Mother.”

  Keeping my head down, I slouched after Char.

  “Hey!” Jewel called out after us.

  Oh no. Did we blow our cover?

  “Tell your brother to stop by in person next time,” she said. “Maybe we’ll hit it off. We’re the same age and we both like Spider-Man.”

  “Will do,” Char said. “You never know.” She lifted her hand in a wave.

  Before we reached the door, we heard Harley start in on Jewel again. “Can’t you loan me fifty bucks, sis?” he asked in a wheedling tone. “I’ll pay you back as soon as the insurance money comes in. You know I’m good for it.”

  Char turned the doorknob.

  “What the hell?” Harley bellowed.

  She froze.

  “Go, just go,” I urged.

  “Turn up the sound,” Harley yelled.

  I sneaked a backward peek. Brother and sister stood transfixed by something on the flat-screen TV opposite them.

  “Theodora St. John is one of my favorite authors,” I heard Darlene Grubb’s recognizable voice say.

  Hearing my name, I turned slowly and regarded the TV screen.

  “Why, she’s even been to my house and signed my books personally.” Darlene proudly held up my three cozy mysteries.

  “So you don’t believe the rumors that Theodora St. John is the Silk Strangler?” the local news reporter asked.

  My breath hitched in my throat. Silk Strangler? I mouthed to Char.

  She stared at me openmouthed.

  “Of course not,” Darlene said. “That’s just a stupid rumor someone started on the Internet.”

  “You don’t think she killed your daughter?” the reporter asked.

  “Absolut
ely not,” Darlene said. “I still think it was my no-good son-in-law.”

  Harley launched himself at the screen, bellowing an epithet.

  “But Harley Cooke was nowhere near Lake Potawatomi when your daughter was killed,” the reporter said. “There’s proof he was in a motel outside Calumet City with his girlfriend.”

  “His pregnant girlfriend,” Darlene said bitterly. “If you ask me, it’s not too big a step from cheatin’ to killin’. Man who cheats on his wife, what’s to stop him from killin’ her too?” She stared right into the camera. “Especially when there’s a big insurance payout involved. One hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That bitch!” Harley roared. “I’m gonna kill her!”

  Carefully I reached up to my full height and held the bell over the door still as Char silently turned the knob. Then we tiptoed out and made a run for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “That was a close one,” Char said as we left Calumet City in the rearview mirror. “That Harley sure is a piece of work.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’.”

  “You don’t think he’ll really go after his mother-in-law, do you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Should we warn her?”

  “How? How in the world could we explain that?” I asked, playing drums on the steering wheel. “‘Hi, Darlene, how are you? By the way, we were undercover in FreakaComics when your interview aired, and we heard your former son-in-law make wild threats at the TV screen.’” I yanked off the gray wig and rubbed my sweaty curls, then turned on the AC to blast away a hot flash. “Remember the last time I went undercover, how Brady got so mad and warned me to leave the crime solving to the professionals?”

  “Yep.” Char thought for a moment. “What if you texted Darlene from your burner phone and thanked her for standing up for you on TV, but also warned her to watch her back? Or …” She reconsidered. “I could just text Brady and tell him we saw Darlene’s interview and are concerned because her son-in-law is volatile and maybe he might want to put a call in to his police pals in Calumet City and have them keep an eye on her or something.”

  “That sounds like a better plan. If Harley knows the cops are watching out for Darlene, he’ll likely stay away from her. I’m guessing the last thing he wants is a return trip to jail.” I sent her a warning glance. “When you text Brady, though, don’t let him know where we are or what we’re doing or we’ll both be in big trouble.”

  “Ya think? I know how to handle Brady.” Char’s fingers flew across her phone. “Okay, done.” She lifted her head and looked out the window, a pensive expression on her face. Then she shook her head and said briskly, “Well, we can definitely scratch Jewel off our list of suspects. One down, one to go.”

  Did she really believe that, or did she, like her boyfriend, have another suspect in mind? I took a deep breath and addressed the elephant hovering between us. “I know that Brady thinks Tavish killed Annabelle,” I said softly, “and maybe even Kristi too, but he didn’t. I know it.”

  “How do you know?” Char asked.

  “Do you think I killed Annabelle?” I asked my best friend.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “And I know Tavish.”

  “Not really,” she said gently. “You’ve known each other what, a week now?”

  Adopting Kate Winslet’s impassioned Marianne Dashwood voice, I repeated Tavish’s earlier Sense and Sensibility quote. “‘It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.’”

  “You’re going to hit me with Jane Austen now?” my former librarian friend asked. “Not fair.” Then she grinned. “Okay, you made your point. Now should we check out this Silk Strangler stuff?”

  “Yes, please. That’s the first I’ve heard of that. I wonder where it came from.”

  “An Agatha Christie wannabe, perhaps?” Char pulled out her iPad and swiped it open.

  “Maybe.” I mused, “I must admit it has a certain ring to it. I like the alliteration. I just don’t like it being attached to my name.”

  “Me either.”

  My phone buzzed with a text. “Can you see who that’s from?” I asked Char. “It might be Joanne. I asked her to keep an eye on Gracie while we were gone.”

  Char picked up my phone from the cup holder between the seats. “It’s not Joanne,” she said. “It’s Sharon.” She read the text aloud: “‘Tavish asked where you two went. I don’t think he bought your shopping story. He kept asking questions. Finally, I improvised and told him it was a birthday surprise for him. That put a big smile on his face and shut him up.’”

  Birthday? I slapped my hand to my forehead. “With all that’s going on, I totally forgot Tavish’s birthday is Wednesday. I promised to make him a Danish layer cake.”

  “It’s only Monday,” Char said. “You’ve got all day tomorrow to whip up a cake.”

  I slid a sideways glance to my non-baking friend. “It’s a little more involved than just whipping up a cake. It’s not like I’m using a box mix.” I expelled a sigh. “And now I have to come up with a birthday surprise too.”

  “No problem,” Char said. “We’ll just throw him a surprise party. Piece of cake. Danish layer cake. Yum.”

  “Or”—my lips curved upward—“maybe we can deliver Annabelle’s murderer. That would be a pretty nice birthday present to serve with the cake and ice cream.”

  Char high-fived me. “Oh yeah.” She continued to search the Internet as I drove, mentally rehearsing my aging-mother lines before we met up with our next murder suspect. A colorful sign caught my eye. “‘Welcome to Indiana, Crossroads of America,’” I recited. “Not long now and we’ll be in Gary. Are you ready for your close-up, daughter of mine?”

  “Crap,” Char said.

  “What?”

  “The Silk Strangler is all over the Internet.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “Attached to my name?”

  Char nodded miserably. “And Tavish’s.”

  I stared dumbly at the road ahead. I would not have been surprised to see the rug just yanked out from under me fly by. “May as well kiss my writing career good-bye. Talk about upending their morality clause.” I slapped the steering wheel. “What the actual hell?”

  “This is why I hate social media,” Char said. “All it takes is one person to post something spurious on Twitter or Instagram, someone shares it, and boom, before you know it, it’s all over the place.”

  “Sounds like Lake Potawatomi.”

  “Except we have less than three thousand people. The Internet’s reach is a bit longer,” Char said wryly. “It can destroy a person’s reputation in one tweet. Look at Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen … Aunt Becky.”

  I slumped in my seat. “I’m starting to know how Thelma felt,” I said. “Wanna be my Louise? We’re already in the car.”

  “Nah, I’m not ready to go over that cliff yet.” Char gave me her stern librarian gaze. “Now you listen to me, Teddie St. John. You have overcome far worse things.” Her eyes filled. “Life-threatening things.” She dashed the back of her hand against her eyes. “This is just gossip. It will blow over. Tomorrow they’ll be talking about the most recent royal family feud or the latest shenanigans between those real housewives.”

  “You’re right.” I reached over and touched my best friend’s arm. “Sorry.” I sat up straight. “Okay, pity party over. So tell me what they’re saying. I need to be prepared for when I talk to Jane. Better the devil I know than the devil I don’t know.”

  “They’re all speculating on who the Wisconsin Silk Strangler might be,” she said. “It’s pretty evenly divided into two camps. Some suspect Tavish, others are convinced it’s you, and a few think it’s some
frustrated mama’s boy that women have always rejected.” She raised her right hand in a fist imitating Anthony Perkins’s downward slasher-in-the-shower motion as she emitted the repeated violin screech from Psycho.

  “Nice,” I said. “Now can you try and find out who first coined that Silk Strangler expression? Was it Brittany the beauty blogger?”

  Char shook her head. “I checked her first thing, and she’s been noticeably quiet on the issue. I guess between Brady and Tavish’s lawyer, they really put the fear of God into her.”

  “Or at least the fear of having to cough up big bucks that she doesn’t have.” Something niggled at the recesses of my memory. Hadn’t I recently heard something similar where someone didn’t have the money to pay for their bad behavior? Tuning out Char, I cast my mind back. Then I remembered. “Ronald Simms,” I breathed.

  “What about him?” Char turned to me, a questioning look on her face. “I’ve got my fake story straight for when we meet him after lunch, not to worry.”

  “I’m not talking about that. Remember in the newspaper article about the plagiarism suit, it said that Tavish, against his agent’s advice, declined to seek financial damages, basically because Tavish is a decent guy and knew Ronald Simms didn’t have the money?”

  “Yeah.” She frowned. “So?”

  “So the lawyers got a cease-and-desist judgment against Ronald Simms years ago that legally prevented him from slinging mud at Tavish,” I said, “but … what’s to stop our friend Ronald from starting a rumor about Tavish online now using a fake name and hiding behind the anonymity of the Internet?” Entering the city of Hammond, I pulled into the parking lot of a burger joint and turned off the engine. Twisting in my seat to face Char, I said dryly, “It wouldn’t be too hard for the man who titled his book Petals Dripping With Blood to come up with a provocative nickname like the Silk Strangler.”

  “You may be onto something there. Let me check it out.” Char started tapping her iPad again.

  “Can you check it out inside, please? I’m starving.” I opened my car door.

  “Not so fast, Mom. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I scrunched my eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”