Death Comes to Suburbia (Book 2 Molly Masters Mysteries) Read online

  “Bye, Mommy!”

  “Do a good job,” I called after them.

  My thoughts warred. Jim was right. I should play it safe and trust that Tommy and his fellow officers to solve the murder. But I’d given my word, and how could I desert poor Tiffany? Just having to be a teenager was punishment enough.in this world. Having her father die a violent death, let alone be suspected by one’s own mother of the murder, was just too horrendous.

  Jim’s partial question nagged at me. Could Stephanie have actually witnessed Tiffany shooting Preston? Is that why Stephanie tried to incriminate herself?

  Later, after the tire was repaired, we encouraged the kids to watch cartoons and locked ourselves in our bedroom as I recounted the events of that morning. It was a frustrating experience, because whenever I tell him something upsetting, Jim interrupts frequently to ask questions. In this case, his questions were not only off the main point, but unanswerable. “How did Preston get the cartoon? How could he sign a contract for you? Why did the magazine want to hire you on the basis of one cartoon?”

  When I came to the part about Stephanie’s “confession” at the hospital, I was unable to convince him that I knew Stephanie was telling me the truth.

  He stared into my eyes. “Uh-oh. There’s that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “Remember that time we were on a softball team, and the other team was short a player, so our captain told them you’d play for them? You had that same look on your face when you stepped up to the plate and hit that home run.”

  The memory made me grin. That was perhaps the only time in the history of Boulder co-rec softball when the pitcher cheered for having a grand-slam hit against him.

  Jim had been pitching.

  “Promise me you’ll stay away from the Saunderses,” he continued.

  “I can’t. I promised Stephanie I’d help Tiffany.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Stephanie’s manipulating you.”

  “I don’t let her manipulate me. She just—”

  “She manipulates everyone. She senses everyone’s weak spots to use against them. Asking you to help her daughter is the best way to con you into helping her. Maybe Preston cheated on Stephanie one time too many, so she killed him. Now she wants to send you on some wild goose chase, hoping you’ll turn up something to deflect everyone’s attention off of where it belongs. On her.”

  Jim’s words made me bristle, though I suspected I wasn’t really angry at him for making the suggestion, but at Stephanie, who was indeed so manipulative that Jim’s theory could be correct. “But our whole family knows Tiffany,” I said. “The kids are crazy about her. I couldn’t live with myself if I turned my back on her and Stephanie now. She’s a recently widowed new mother!”

  “If you go chasing after some murderer,” Jim shot back, “you might just turn me into a recent widower.”

  “I’m not going to put myself in danger. But I am going to talk to Tiffany and her friends and try to find out if she’s involved. Because either way, she needs help. She’s a child, and she’s just lost her father. The time I stop caring about the people in my life is the time I hope I stop living!”

  This last remark was an overstatement, but as a former debate-team captain, verbal sparring brings out the occasional drama queen in me.

  Jim grimaced and dragged both hands through his hair, a gesture he only used when he felt defeated. “Can’t you care from a safe distance? For the sake of our family?”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.” I felt like a wishbone, with the Saunders family tugging on one side, my family tugging on the other. And some wacko group called STOP wielding a meat cleaver.

  Jim shook his head and unlocked the door. He was not the sort who’d battle for the last word.

  “Jim, I’ve got to go next door and tell Lauren about Preston. Can you keep an eye on the kids?”

  “Okay. I’ll be working at the computer, but I’ll be here.” He didn’t look at me, just headed down the stairs. It was painful to see him this worried about me. My spirits were sinking to basement level as well.

  The air was downright frigid, but I dashed across the lawn without a coat, my thoughts on Lauren. She had played a part in virtually every significant memory from my childhood. During our late teens, our friendship survived despite a couple of traumas that had threatened to rip us apart. Now when we were together, I experienced an almost magical blending of past and present—the little girl in pigtails I once skipped rope with, and the elegant woman who talked and laughed with me while our daughters skipped rope.

  Then, last summer, Lauren and Preston had had an affair. Her husband had died shortly after learning of his wife’s infidelity, leaving Lauren in emotional shambles for some time.

  In the last two or three months, she had started to put her life back together. She had taken on a part-time job in the principal’s office at the high school building of the Carlton Central campus. She’d recently admitted to me that she’d finally forgiven herself for the “terrible mistake” she’d made with Preston. She once again seemed to be the Lauren Wilkins I knew and loved. What the news that Preston had been murdered would do to her I could only guess. But I wanted to tell her myself, not have her hear it over the eleven o’clock news or, worse, from our small-town grapevine, which occasionally reached out and choked us.

  Inside, the house was warm and smelled like cinnamon. It was clear the moment our eyes met that Lauren was already aware something was wrong. Her daughter, Rachel, raced to join us. Our daughters were in the same second-grade class and were best buddies.

  “Where’s Karen?” Rachel asked.

  “She and Nathan are home with their daddy.”

  “Can I go play with them?” Her eyes focused on mine, then her mom’s.

  We agreed to let her go, though I called Jim first to let him know there would be a third child under his supervision. He tended to get so absorbed in his work he wouldn’t notice the house was burning down till his clothes caught fire.

  I sat on a barstool at her kitchen counter and we made small talk as Lauren microwaved us some tea. She was a fairly large woman, big-boned being the euphemism of choice, and had a round face with shoulder-length brown hair. A stranger might not even find her especially attractive. But she had an undeniable presence about her, along with a stunning smile. I thought of her as nothing less than beautiful.

  She slid a cup toward me and took the stool next to mine. As if her sitting signified it was time to get down to business, she said, “I saw a police car in your driveway a few minutes ago. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Preston. He was…someone shot him.”

  She paled. “Oh my God. Is he dead?”

  I nodded, feeling inarticulate, while watching Lauren’s face for signs of the emotional upheaval I imagined she must be experiencing. I blathered through an account of Preston’s visit, Stephanie’s call for help, and the bizarre scene at Stephanie’s house. Lauren listened silently until I told her about the birth in the ambulance.

  “Good Lord,” she murmured. “Steph’s baby was born on the same day her husband died. How is she handling this?”

  “In pure Stephanie style. I’ve never been able to fathom her behavior, even under the best of circumstances.

  “So,” I continued with my chronology, “when we got to the hospital, she asked to speak to me alone and told me that—” I stopped, remembering that Stephanie had said she was never going to tell anyone what Preston’s dying word had been. I had already told Jim, but he would never repeat it. That was not necessarily true with Lauren.

  “What?” Lauren prompted.

  “That she didn’t do it.”

  She waited. “And?”

  “That’s it.”

  She sat back, studied my face, then shook her head. “Molly. I know you better than I do myself. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

  I averted my eyes. I hadn’t actually promised Stephanie I’d keep her secret; only that I’d help Tiffany.
And because Lauren worked in the high school office, she could be a tremendous asset when arranging to talk with Tiffany’s friends. “I’m sworn to secrecy on this, so don’t tell anyone, but she’s afraid Tiffany may have been responsible. The thing is, I’m almost positive Tommy eavesdropped and knows about Tiffany.”

  Lauren sat in silence, absorbing my news. “This is all so horrible. Preston, murdered. It’s as if every man I’ve ever slept with gets killed. Thank God I was working at school all morning. Otherwise it’d just be my luck Tommy Newton would think I did it, once again.”

  I studied her, making no comment. At length, she met my gaze, then rose and crossed over to the window that faced my home. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked, more of herself than of me. “I should feel…torn up about this. After all, he was my lover, once. I’m sad that he’s dead, but that’s all. The truth is, he was such a sleaze I can’t believe I ever actually slept with him.” She leaned on the countertop for a moment, then straightened and added wistfully, “I just wish I knew what to do for Stephanie. Should I visit her? Bring her a baby gift? We’ve made a point of avoiding each other, and I haven’t even seen her in six months.”

  I resisted the temptation to point out once again that I was the last person she should ask what to do where Stephanie was concerned. “Maybe you should call her at the hospital and say you’d like to visit and see what she says. But Stephanie is tough as nails. It’s so weird. She cares more about the mess on her carpet than she does about her husband’s death. At this point, I just feel bad for Tiffany, losing her father.”

  “True. The thing is, though, Stephanie’s already succeeded at creating Tiffany in her own image. Don’t you think?”

  Because Lauren was actually quoting me from a conversation we’d had months ago about Tiffany, I couldn’t disagree. “Well, yes, but Tiffany’s only fifteen. Theoretically, there’s still time for her to change. And lately, I’ve found myself liking Tiffany more, mostly because my kids think she’s wonderful.”

  Lauren studied my face. “Do you really think Tiffany could have killed her own father?”

  I thought about that for a moment. “No. But I do believe one of her friends might have. You can’t even read the newspapers now without coming across some article about some child shooting someone with a gun.”

  But that begged a very important question: if I couldn’t believe Tiffany had murdered Preston, how could Stephanie? Was Tiffany’s possible involvement just an irrational fear on Stephanie’s part, indicating she truly was traumatized by the murder? Or was it because she knew her own daughter so much better than I did? To answer those questions, I was going to have to get to know Tiffany better.

  To my surprise, the three children and Jim were engrossed in a game of Old Maid when I got home from Lauren’s. Times like this made me want to design a “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug for Jim. It also struck me that this was a golden opportunity for me to purchase a copy of Between the Legs privately. I told him I was going to put some gas in the car, and headed across town to a self-serve station that sold cheese snacks and cheesy magazines.

  As I filled the tank, I realized I should’ve simply asked Jim to get me a copy. He would have been considerably less conspicuous asking for a “girly” magazine. Then again, I was here now. May as well go through with it.

  I washed every window in my car twice while waiting for other customers to leave. The clerk was a gruff-looking man in his sixties. Behind him was a small wire rack of various men’s magazines, each sealed in plastic. I told him what my total for unleaded was, then tried to sound casual as I added, “Oh, and could I get a copy of Between the Legs, too, please?”

  He smirked, but silently fetched a copy. He rang up my bill with gnarled fingers so discolored with cigarette stains they looked like old cigars.

  Unless the threats from STOP were a bizarre coincidence, the killer had to have seen a copy of the edition that printed my cartoon. There weren’t many locations in Carlton that sold smut. If we happened to have selected the same store and the same clerk, I might be able to get a description.

  As he slipped my magazine into a brown bag, I asked, “Have you sold many copies of this lately?”

  He shrugged. “Two or three.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to remember what the people who bought ‘em looked like, would you?”

  He grinned, revealing rotted teeth. “Why? Trying to start a fan club?”

  My cheeks warmed. “I’m just…I want to make sure my husband hasn’t bought any copies. This is a birthday present for him, and I want to be sure he hasn’t already got it.”

  He let out a wheezy laugh. “You’re giving him a porno mag? Whooee! You must have some interesting birthday parties. Are you gonna hire a stripper to pop out of his cake?”

  Not about to dignify that with an answer, I ignored my ever-warming cheeks and pressed on. “My husband is average height, typical looking. Does that sound like any of your customers who’ve bought this magazine?”

  “Don’t recall. Tell you one thing, though. You’re the second woman I’ve sold it to.”

  Aha! A STOP member! What woman, besides me, would pay good money for this trash? “Really? What did the other woman look like?”

  He peered at me. “Why?”

  “Well, because…” How could I lie my way out of this one? “It could have been my sister-in-law. Can you describe her to me?”

  He chuckled again, blatantly staring at my chest. “Attractive. In her thirties or so. Blond, I think, but I can’t swear to it. That was ‘bout a week or so ago when our April editions first arrive. I only remember that much ‘cuz she was the first woman I ever sold the mag to. You’re the second.” He glanced back at the rack of magazines. “It must have cross-appeal. Maybe I should order more copies.”

  I murmured thanks and turned away.

  “Sure thing. Hope your hubby has a real special birthday.”

  Trying to ignore my inner voice that was screaming “Stephanie” in response to the female magazine-buyer’s description, I drove home. The clerk would’ve mentioned if the woman customer had been eight months pregnant. There was no reason for me to jump to the conclusion that Stephanie had bought this magazine and plotted her husband’s demise.

  Actually, as my astute husband had already pointed out, “no reason” was an exaggeration. Knowing that spouses were always the first suspects, Stephanie could have learned about the cartoon and plotted the whole STOP thing as a blind. That would explain the empty box in the closet. She couldn’t stand the thought of having actual dog doo-doo in her own house, so she put just the box in the closet. She kills Preston, calls me to set me up, and sends me for her suitcase, knowing I’d see the box and get my fingerprints on it.

  “Stop it,” I told myself aloud. In times such as this it’s imperative to trust one’s instincts. In my heart of hearts, I believed Stephanie was innocent and was telling the truth about her fear for Tiffany.

  And after all, “attractive, in her thirties” fit any number of women in this town, any of whom could be members of STOP. I reflected on the two women joggers this morning who’d overheard my exchange with Preston. Either one of them loosely fit the clerk’s description. Perhaps they were from STOP and had been jogging around my block to spy on “Mike” Masters.

  The next morning, Jim left for work, the kids were off to school, and I tried to return my office to the same state of organized chaos I liked it in. Jim had straightened, which annoyed me to no end. He had to be prodded to do the dishes or to clean any room except for the one room in the house I considered Mine All Mine.

  I finished my drawing for the home-security company, then doodled on my drawing pad for a while. I put generic eCards on my website that my contracted customers could select. This being the end of March, I already had a plethora of St. Patrick’s Day and Easter cards for sale. I decided to put some early Christmas cards up.

  When my husband’s job had forced us to relocate, I left my job at a greeting card company
in Boulder. Opening my own business allowed me to focus on my strength, cartooning. Serious Christmas cards, however, always outsold the humorous ones. So I drew a desert scene where, on the horizon, a camel laden with Christmas presents is led by a man in Arabian robes. The caption would read:

  May the Joy and Peace of the Holiday Season

  Stay with You

  Across the Sands of Time

  The challenge facing me was to paint the picture well enough to inspire feelings of peacefulness. I envisioned the rich hues of a desert at dusk. But as a mostly self-taught artist—my bachelor’s degree was in journalism—what I envisioned and what I produced were often quite different.

  My business address got an email. As always, I hoped it would be a job order, but it was merely a resume from some woman who’d seen my name in a greeting card trade magazine. This was a common occurrence; the amount of actual work my business ads generated was always neck-and-neck with the number of job applications they inspired. The popular opinion seems to be that any idiot can write greeting cards, which may be true, however this is one idiot who can’t afford to hire a staff.

  The applicant’s work history was in “the food-service management industry” (read: a waitress). She was sure I’d want to hire her. A sample stanza was included, with a hand-printed copyright notice to prevent me from plagiarizing: My love will always be true/Without you I could never do/Say you’ll be mine/Please be my valentine.

  “Wow,” I cried, indulging myself with some sarcasm, “I never thought of rhyming mine and valentine. The woman’s a genius!”

  I got a fax and assumed the bad poet was trying to cover all of her bases. I whipped it out of the tray and read:

  Molly Masters:

  We know what you’re doing. You are a traitor to women everywhere! You didn’t even have the guts to admit you were a woman. You used a man’s photograph in that disgusting piece of filth. Now you’re trying to frame S.T.O.P. for murder! Atone, or else you will be our first victim!