Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “You don’t have to do that,” I protested. Seriously—you really don’t have to do that. Char made a gagging motion behind his back.

  “It’s the least I could do.”

  “Well, thanks.” Taking the book from his proffered hand, I started to slip it into my tote, but he stopped me. “Aren’t you going to read the inscription?”

  “Of course.” I opened the book and read aloud, “‘To Betty, may you never find any petals dripping with blood at your new home in Gary. If you do, let me know and I can arrange to find your Realtor a property six feet under. Ha-ha!’”

  Like you did for Annabelle.

  Ron chortled. “Pretty funny, huh?”

  “Hilarious. Have you ever considered writing humor books instead of horror?”

  His eyes lit up. “Actually, I have,” he said, missing the sarcasm completely. “Everyone laughs at the funny stories I tell at our annual independent Realtors’ convention. I’ve thought of putting the stories from all the years together into one collection and calling it Gags and Giggles From the Real Estate Home Front.” He giggled. “What do you think?”

  “That’s a good one,” I said weakly as I tried to communicate with Char telepathically: Come on already. I can’t take much more of this.

  “Found it!” Char exclaimed. “It was a tweet. She read aloud, “‘Spill the tea. Which mystery author is the Silk Strangler? Could he be tall, dark, and English? Or is she tall, flat, and closer to home? Hashtag Tavish Bentley. Hashtag Theodora St. John.’” She deliberately avoided glancing my way, and while Ron was intent on my make-believe daughter, I took the opportunity to slouch even more, grateful I had had the foresight to wear my knitted knockers as part of my disguise.

  Char-as-Carol offered Ron an innocent look. “It sounds like someone appropriated the title of your book, and this time I don’t think it’s Tavish Bentley.” She widened her eyes. “You should sue them for plagiarism, stealing your title that way.”

  His pasty skin turned even chalkier. “I don’t think so. I have already been down that road once. All it brought me was a lot of trouble,” he said bitterly.

  “You’re probably right,” Char said. She adopted an I-just-remembered-something act. “Oh, and guess what? When I Googled Silk Stocking Strangler, your website came up, Ron.” She batted her eyes at him. “Or should I say Don Juan?”

  His face turned pink. “Authors need to have a unique name to stand out … I thought that pseudonym might attract a lot of female readers.”

  I’ll bet you did, Ronny-boy. What else were you hoping to attract? Then it hit me. How could I not have seen it before now? The realtor-slash-author’s erotic horror book covers showed the man had an obsession with men murdering women—having power over them. Every single one of his book covers showed a dead woman on the ground, usually wearing white, and usually with a large murderous man looming over her. Ronald Simms might come across as a meek, mild-mannered, ineffectual old man, but clearly the guy had issues—mother ones, perhaps?—and was acting out frustrated fantasies of killing women in his novels. Visions of Anthony Perkins murdering Janet Leigh in the shower filled my head, complete with the screeching-violins background music.

  Oh. My. God. Maybe we’ve been looking at this all wrong. Maybe Annabelle hadn’t killed Kristi in a jealous rage after all. Maybe Ron Simms had. Kristi was young, beautiful, and voluptuous—just like the women on Ron’s book covers, I realized to my mounting horror. The realization pinned me to my seat. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Killing Kristi would not only satiate the wannabe Don Juan’s erotic horror fantasies, it would also give him his long-awaited revenge on Tavish—effectively killing two birds with one stone, to use a cliché. Something that’s frowned upon in fiction. That meant … we were alone in the same room with a murderer. At least this time I wasn’t alone. I had brought one of the Musketeers along for backup, and Sharon, our third Musketeer, knew where we were and would sound the alarm if we weren’t home by five. That was still several hours away, though. A lot could happen between now and then.

  Returning to the conversation, which our likely Silk Strangler hadn’t even realized I’d checked out of a while ago, I studied Ron intently and caught him staring at Char with lust-filled eyes as she chattered on. Unaware that I was watching—and on to him—the author-slash-murderer licked his lips.

  We need to get the hell out of here. Now. No way are we getting in a car with Ron Simms and letting him take us to empty houses, more than likely in the middle of nowhere where we’ll be alone and vulnerable and no one can hear us scream. Who knew what weapons he might have stored in his house-of-horrors traps? Likely more than scarves—although thankfully I hadn’t worn one today. I gnawed at my lower lip. How to let Char know, though—what reasonable excuse could I use to get us out of there? As I considered the best course of action, I recognized the two things I had going for me were that Don Juan didn’t know I was onto him and that he thought I was an old lady. He didn’t have a clue about my Wonder Woman moves.

  I’ll start by playing the arthritis card like I did on Jewel at the comics shop, I mused, only really lay it on thick this time and pray madly that Char will follow my lead. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just get up close and knee the bastard. I’ll have the element of surprise on my side, as I had with Kristi’s ex Tom. Besides, Ron Simms is much older and smaller than Tom. I can easily incapacitate the nasty bugger. Confident of my plan, I once again tuned back in to the conversation.

  “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you about my books, Carol,” Ron was saying, “but we really should get going now and see those houses.”

  “Sounds good,” Char-slash-Carol said. “I’m eager to see what you have for us.”

  No, you’re not, Char. You’re really not.

  Ron fumbled with his keys. “Shall we all go in my car? Although … thinking about it, it’s a bit small for all three of us.” He turned to me, laying the phony solicitousness on thick. “Betty, would you be more comfortable following Carol and me in your car instead? I wouldn’t want you to feel cramped and uncomfortable, especially considering your arthritis.”

  Hell to the no, I thought. I smiled sweetly at him. “Nah, that’s okay. Let’s all go together in one car. I’ll be fine. Besides”—I released a rueful laugh—“I’m directionally impaired and get lost all the time. I don’t know this city.” Then I adopted a frightened-old-woman demeanor, making my voice all tremulous and quavery. “Wh-what happens if I can’t keep up with you and you lose me?”

  Char sent me a curious look behind Ron’s back, but played along like the quick-thinking daughter she was. She patted my arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll stay together. Right, Ron?”

  “Whatever you ladies want.” He handed Char one of the flyers. “I thought we’d start with this one first. It’s an old Victorian with four bedrooms, two baths, and a powder room. The entire house has been totally remodeled. It sits on a corner lot at the end of a quiet street and backs up to an open field—very pretty and peaceful. Almost feels like you’re living in the country.”

  Of course it does, you sick puppy. In the country, no one can hear you scream.

  “Sounds great,” Char said. “It’s gorgeous.” She passed me the flyer. “Look, Mom, it’s even blue, your favorite color.”

  “Beautiful,” I said, playing along. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  He made a little bow. “After you, ladies.”

  As Char stood and picked up her purse, I pushed myself up from the chair. “Ow!” I exclaimed, grabbing my left knee and immediately plopping back down.

  “What’s wrong?” Ron asked.

  “My rheumatoid arthritis.” I rubbed my knee and grimaced in fake pain. “It’s really acting up. I must have aggravated it when I jumped up earlier to get your water.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Carol/Char said. “I should have thought about that and not spent so much time talking with Ron here. I was really enjoying our conversation, though.” She fl
ashed him a smile before returning her full attention to me. “Do you think you can walk it off? That helps sometimes.”

  “I can try.” Easing myself slowly back up from the chair, I hobbled a few steps, moaning and contorting my face in mock pain the whole time. “I don’t think that’s gonna work this time, honey,” I said to my counterfeit daughter. “I think I need to sit back and stretch out my leg.”

  “How about some ice?” Ron asked. “Will that help? We’ve got an ice pack in the freezer. My colleague keeps it there for her bad back.”

  “It might,” I said in a pathetic voice.

  “Great.” He hurried over to the ancient white refrigerator in the back corner of his office and opened the freezer door. “You can stretch out on the sofa here and put the ice on your knee and just rest and take it easy while Carol and I go look at houses.”

  Giving a quick headshake to Char while the Silk Strangler’s back was turned, I jerked my eyes to the front door and mouthed, We need to leave. Now!

  Ron shut the freezer door and scurried over with the ice pack. “Here you go,” he said, offering it to me.

  “Thanks, Ron, but I don’t think that will work,” Char said regretfully, making it up as she went along. “When Mom is in this much pain, her doctor recommends alternating between heat and cold.”

  “That’s right,” I said, running with it. “What I really need is a long hot bath and my heating pad. Twenty minutes with the heating pad, twenty minutes with ice, and repeat.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Char said to him, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to take my mother home.”

  “But we didn’t even visit one house,” he whined.

  “I know,” she said, “and I’m really sorry about that, but it can’t be helped. I need to get her home. I’ll put the seat down in the car so she can stretch out.”

  Ron frowned, and I could see his fiendish little brain beneath his toupee trying feverishly to come up with another way to keep us there. I knew his real quarry was Char. I was just collateral damage. He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. I have a heating pad at my house. It’s just a couple blocks away. I can run home, get it, and bring it back here. Or if you’d rather, Betty, you can just stay at my house, stretch out on the couch with the heating pad, and watch TV while Carol and I go look at houses.” He beamed at the two of us. “Problem solved.”

  Desperate much?

  “That’s so kind of you, Ron,” I said weakly, “but when I feel like this, I just want to be home in my own bed with my sweet little doggy next to me for comfort.”

  “I understand.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m the same way when I don’t feel well.”

  “I’m so sorry about all this,” I said as I struggled to my feet. “I feel terrible for wasting your afternoon. Can we reschedule for one day next week?” Then I heaped it on thick. “I really want to see that blue Victorian.”

  “Of course.” He pulled his planner off his desk. “Carol, what day would be good for you with your work schedule?”

  “Ohhhh,” I cried out, doubling over and clutching my knee to lend verisimilitude to my fake-pain act. As I did, I felt my wig shift. Oh no, please don’t let him notice.

  Char quickly stepped in close beside me and laid my head on her shoulder, giving a discreet tug to my wig in the process. “It’s okay, Mom,” she said in a soothing voice, “I’m going to take you home now.” With her arm around me, she carefully ushered me to the door, saying over her shoulder to the foiled Realtor, “I’ll call you tomorrow to reschedule.”

  “My tote,” I whispered.

  “Ron,” she said as she opened the door, “would you mind bringing my mother’s bag?”

  Following us outside, Ron waited while Char got me situated in the passenger seat before handing my tote to me through the open window. “Here you go, Betty,” he said in a voice tinged with concern yet underlain with anger. “I hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, acting spent—although it wasn’t much of an act. “And thank you so much for your book. I can’t wait to read it.”

  Liar.

  Carol buckled her seat belt and gave Ron a brief wave out the window. “Thanks again for everything. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  He returned her wave, and Char slowly backed out of her parking space. Flipping my visor mirror down, I caught Ron’s eyes narrowing as he looked at our license plate. Checking his wave, he balled his hand into a fist.

  “You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?” Char asked through a clenched smile as she pulled into the street.

  “Later,” I said sotto voce. “He’s still watching and he saw our license plate. He knows we’re not from Chicago, and he’s not happy.” As soon as we turned the corner, however, I said, “Burn rubber. We need to put as much distance as we can between Don Juan and us.”

  Char pressed her foot on the accelerator, and we sped out of Gary. Once we were out of the city limits, she said, “Now are you going to tell me why we had to leave so fast?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure Don Juan is the Silk Strangler. And not only did he kill Annabelle, I think he killed Kristi as well.”

  * * *

  Continually checking behind us to make sure Ron Simms was not following our car as we flew toward home, I yanked off my hot, itchy wig. Then I filled Char in on how I had arrived at my conclusion that the Realtor was likely the Silk Strangler and responsible for the recent deaths of the two women in our small town.

  “You may be right,” she said thoughtfully. “His extreme reaction to Tavish’s latest book clearly shows how much Ron hates him. And not only that, his slimy book covers really creeped me out—his books are clearly the product of a fevered imagination.”

  “Which reminds me …” I reached into my tote bag and pulled out Petals Dripping With Blood. Opening the book, I started skimming through it.

  “Well?” Char asked after a few minutes.

  “The writing’s absolute crap. It reads like something a horny seventh-grade boy wrote—one who is flunking English. Our Ronny needs to go to a Fiction 101 writing seminar or invest in some how-to books.” I made a face. “No one says anything. They all shriek, scream, sob, shout, exclaim, or cry out, and do not even get me started on all the exclamation marks. He vomited them onto every page.”

  Char snorted. “What a surprise to learn that Ron’s a lousy writer. I’d never have guessed from those amazing covers.” She slid me a sideways glance. “How about the actual content, though? Is it horror porn?”

  “Oh yeah,” I slapped the book shut and threw it in the back seat. I wanted to throw it out the window, but that would be littering. “It’s full of testosterone-fueled men and helpless—but of course always voluptuous—Marilyn Monroe types in peril from sadistic rapists and serial killers. It’s misogynistic as all get out. The man who wrote this really hates women.” I shuddered.

  “Enough to kill them?”

  “I think so, but I’m not a psychologist. We’ll let the experts puzzle that out.” I grimaced. “I really need a shower after reading that, but I’ll have to settle for hand sanitizer.” I pulled out the plastic travel-sized bottle I always keep in the glove box and squeezed a liberal amount into my palms. Then I Lady Macbethed my hands.

  Two hours later when we pulled into my driveway, Brady and Tavish were sitting on the back step waiting for us.

  Char swore under her breath.

  “We’re in for it now,” I muttered, unbuckling my seat belt and taking a deep breath as I climbed out of the car.

  “Nice outfit, Ted,” Brady said. “Not your usual style though. Bit old for you, isn’t it?”

  “A girl’s gotta change it up every now and then,” I said, grateful I had left the gray wig in the car.

  Tavish didn’t say anything, but he had an odd expression on his face as he regarded me. I couldn’t tell if it was concern or disappointment. Maybe a mixture of both.

  Char stood next to me in solidarity. All for
one and one for all.

  Brady fixed us with a piercing stare, his lips set in a thin line. “You two just came from Calumet City, didn’t you?”

  “No,” we chorused. It wasn’t a lie, technically. Calumet City had been the first stop on our journey, not the last.

  “What makes you think that?” Char asked, feigning innocence.

  “Because,” Brady said in a clipped tone, “Darlene Grubb’s interview only ran on the local Illinois TV station. The only way you could have possibly seen it was by physically being in Calumet City at the time.”

  I held up my hands. “Okay, you got us. We did go to Calumet City earlier. But that’s not important now.” I waved my hand in a dismissive motion. “What is important is that we found the person who killed Annabelle and likely Kristi too.”

  Tavish sucked in his breath.

  Brady expelled a loud sigh. “For the last time, Harley Cooke did not kill his wife.”

  “I’m not talking about Harley.” I looked directly at Tavish. “I’m talking about Ron Simms.”

  Tavish’s eyes widened. “Ronald Simms? The man who accused me of plagiarism years ago?”

  I nodded and reached into the car to pull out Petals Dripping With Blood. Handing the book to Brady, I told the two of them how we’d gone to Indiana to see Ron Simms, and how he’d flown into a jealous rage upon seeing Tavish’s Her Blood Weeps. I then recounted the rest of our visit with the Realtor-slash-author and linked the title of one of his horror-porn books to the rumors he had started online about his nemesis Tavish being the Silk Strangler. I ended with my explanation of how Ron had been off sick from work during the time frame when Kristi and Annabelle were murdered, and laid out the chronology of how he could have easily gotten to Lake Potawatomi and killed both women and at last gotten his revenge on Tavish.

  Brady let out a long low whistle. “That’s a pretty fantastic story, Ted. Do you have proof of any of this? Or is this all just wild imaginings on your part?”