Murder Actually (22 page)

I must've been underwater for hours, the way I felt, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes when the water became shallow and I was negotiating the rocks towards the shoreline. I looked up but could detect no movement from the shelf above. A rickety dock offered some protection, and I swam underneath and held onto the grimy wood. From somewhere above me, I could hear the sound of running footsteps. Pounding away, getting closer and closer…

“Gotcha.”

It was Coco. She stood over me, a triumphant expression on her flushed face. It was over, she'd won.

I squared myself for the bullet, wondering if it would hit me in the head or the chest, and turned to face Coco for the last time. She raised the gun at the same moment I became aware of another set of footsteps. Grant caught her just as she pulled the trigger, slamming her body into the ground.

She went down face first, and Grant straddled her, keeping one knee firmly in her back.

“Get the gun, Betts,” he commanded.

I did as I was told and then watched as he pinned Coco to the ground. She was writhing, spitting and cursing, but she was unarmed.

“You saved me,” I said weakly. My shoulder felt like it was on fire and my clothing was soaked and filthy. Grant loomed over me, a concerned expression on his face. I heard the sound of police cars and when Grant smiled it was with a faint trace of his old, defiant grin. The last thing I heard before I fainted in an elegant heap was his voice,

“Well, that was interesting.”

Grant always had a way with an understatement.

 

 

 

I was discharged from the hospital the next day with a bandage on my shoulder and a stern admonishment to take better care of myself. I assumed it was a thinly disguised warning to stay away from Julia Berry.

Mom picked me up from the hospital and clucked over me until I threatened to tell Dad about Billy Liddell, and after she left Julia arrived and took over the role of mother hen. She set me up in bed with Blue, blankets, and hot tea.

“How could someone as evil as Coco Ware make such delicious pies?” I asked for the thousandth time. “It's not fair.”

Julia took a sip of her tea. “You have to let it go, Elspeth. I just wonder how Blue figured out which photograph we needed.”

I raised my brows. “Really, Julia? You really believe that Blue knew what he was doing?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded her head vigorously. “I've told you he has special senses, just like Ms. Weebles. Cats are intuitive.”

“Or maybe it was a coincidence.”

She looked at me pityingly and shook her head. “There's none as blind as them that cannot see.”

“Please don't let on to Blue you feel this way. He's already insufferably arrogant.”

She reached over to pet his ear and he stretched to allow her more access. “With reason! I chose the wrong member of your household to start my detective business. You're just lucky Blue kept a cool head in a crisis.”

I grimaced. “I'm lucky Grant did.”

“Thank goodness he had the foresight to bring a corkscrew! Definitely a cautionary tale for people who only drink boxed wine.”

I shook my head. “How did the police arrive so quickly?”

“Missy Conger called Liddell. She decided there was a bit too much interest in those photos for her to keep them to herself.”

“Grant and I owe her big-time.”

“I'm just surprised Coco killed Jasper in the first place,” Julia said. “She seemed too cool to commit a crime of passion.”

I shook my head. “She snapped. All those years stuck in All Hallows and then Jasper and his millions showed her the way out. She just couldn't take it that he would ditch her…especially for someone like Violet Ambler. She saw Violet snatching everything away. Nora was easy to frame, she was too trusting…and gave too much away.”

Julia sat back and sighed. “Everything comes back to St. Anne's rummage sale: the scarf, the craft wire, the pearl earring…”

“The sale made it very easy for Coco to implicate Nora.”

“I've always said there's something creepy about rummage sales,” Julia said ruminatively.

“I can't believe you're going to use a triple homicide to feed your irrational prejudice against used clothing.”

“It doesn't seem too irrational in this context, does it?”

I finally managed to get rid of her and took a shower. I changed into my favorite t-shirt and jeans and then went down to the kitchen and turned on my coffeepot. After I brewed my cup I wandered through the house and stopped in the living room.

There it was; a neat, round bullet hole in the doorway casement. I hadn't imagined it; the whole thing wasn't some horrible crazy dream. The police had removed the bullet but the hole remained. I decided to keep it as a testament to my stupidity.

I went and sat down. I just wanted to unwind and recover and maybe watch some HGTV. I cursed under my breath when the doorbell rang and went and looked out the front window.

It was Grant. He held at least three dozen red roses fresh in their cellophane and as I opened the door I raised a brow.

“Shouldn't I be the one giving you flowers? If it weren't for you I'd be dead right now.”

He followed me inside and I put the roses in the kitchen sink.

“I'm sure you and Blue would've thought of something.”

I turned back to face him. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” he grimaced. “Knees to the groin aren't exactly hospital worthy.”

“I'm just glad you're alright.”

He stopped and peered at me closely, and I busied myself with coffee mugs and cream.

“Elspeth,” his voice cracked and his cleared his throat and started over. “Betts, what I said yesterday…”

I shook my head. “Grant, I'm not sure if I'm ready to hear this.”

He made a noise and impatiently ran a hand through his hair. “When will you be ready?”

“I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever be. I feel like everything is ruined before we even start.”

He grabbed and held me by the arms. “No, it's not. It can be even better the second time around if you just stop beating yourself up about things. So what, you can't have a baby! There's a lot in life besides having kids.”

“Like what?”

“Like love…and travel and writing and reading and shopping and solving mysteries...”

“You make it sound like I have a full life already.”

“You do. You're perfect just the way you are.”

Okay, so he stole it from
Bridget Jones
, but he had no idea he'd stolen it which made it even sweeter. He stood in front of me and looked down into my eyes. “I don't need an answer today. I just want you to promise me you'll think about it.”

“I will.”

We stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. I didn't know where to look.

“Do you want to make out?”

I gave him a little push, grimacing at the sudden pain in my shoulder. “Grant! I told you I needed time to think about it!”

“I was joking…sorta. Take all the time you need, you know where to find me.”

He leaned over and kissed me softly and then was gone. I sat down at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. Blue eyed me appraisingly and I wondered if he'd somehow orchestrated the whole thing to keep Ingrid away. I groaned and leaned back in my chair.

Figuring out mysteries was a whole lot easier than figuring out love.

 

 

 

My books always end well for my heroines.

They find a man, get married, and ostensibly end up having a family, although I never include that part (Paula says there's nothing romantic about spit-up and poopy diapers).

Coco Ware's arrest and subsequent conviction kept returning to the front pages for months, and every time All Hallows was under siege from reporters, journalists and camera crews. Coco was eventually sentenced to three consecutive life terms in the New York State Penitentiary, and the media circus packed up and left All Hallows.

Ainsley and Grant left, too. Rumor surfaced she'd won a major award from the Hudson Valley Press Club and I heard she and Grant were back in Albany… together. I tried to forget the things Grant said the last time we were together. I thought he'd respected my space a little too much: I hadn't heard one word from him, not even a drunk dial.

In the meantime, the first delicious hints of fall had come to All Hallows. The light breezes blew crimson and gold leaves across the old stone walkways and the cottages glowed in the burnished sun. The smell of crisp autumn air mingled with chimney smoke, and hay bales dotted the hills, adding to the Irving-esque beauty of Point Savage.

I was looking forward to some peace and quiet to finish up
The Cupcake Chronicles
. I'd changed the character of Tessa Oglesby to the more biddable Kaitlyn Asher, and the transformation was going quite well. Tessa continued to give me dirty looks from the margins but I didn't care. I had a deadline.

Julia and I were meeting for lunch at Sweet Annie B's, and as I finished my salad I sat back and sighed.

“What's going to happen to the
Gazette
?” I asked.

“Nora's buying it. She wants to make sure All Hallows has a local voice.”

“Nora's a peach.”

Julia nodded. “She feels guilty about Crispin's death and wants to make some kind of atonement. Plus, she and Alex are officially engaged now and I think she's going to convince him to run a newspaper.”

“The divorce was pretty fast.”

“It seems that if your spouse is convicted of triple homicide the court turns a blind eye to requests for marital counseling.” Julia reached into her handbag and pulled out a small box. “Well, it's our first official success. Nora's paying us five thousand dollars for our work on the case. Take a look at these!”

I opened the box and pulled out a delicate pink card edged with a leopard-print border. There was an image of a magnifying glass in one corner and a red stiletto in the other.

 

Confidential Inquires

Berry & Gray

If you have this card, you know how to reach us.

 

“Isn't it cool, Betts? Kind of like the
A-Team
, you know:
if you need us and if you can find us, you can always call
…Berry & Gray.”

I was exasperated. “I thought the whole point of a business card was to give potential clients our phone number.”

“We did. It's on the back. That's how they know how to reach us.”

I flipped the card over with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “It's my cell phone number!”

Julia eyed me reproachfully. “Well, I couldn't give them my number. My phone is paid for by Essex University. It would be a shocking misappropriation of funds.”

For someone who played fast and loose with our client retainer account I considered this a bit hypocritical. “I guess I can get a new phone for personal use,” I said. “But now every quack with a problem is going to be calling me up. Or worse, the ones who want a date.”

“How is that worse? This could open up a whole new dating venue for you! That reminds me, the All Hallows Historical Society will let us advertise in their guidebooks if we volunteer our services.”

“Doing what?” I asked suspiciously. “I'm not dressing up like a Victorian serving wench again.”

Julia shook her head. “Guides for the All Hallows Haunted Tours! And don't be surprised if our groups have murder on the mind. Inkwell Books and the
Gazette
office are both included in the tour.”

“I think I'll be too busy with my writing,” I paused and looked away. “My agent wants me to write mysteries… cozy mysteries.”

Julia sputtered into her tea. She was laughing…at me.

I was indignant. “What's so funny? I'm a writer, aren't I?”

“Yes, but the idea of you writing cozies…it's ridiculous! You don't even like them! Your readers would know you were faking it.”

“You can't ‘fake' fiction. That's the whole point of fiction, it's fake. I can't believe you think I can't write a cozy. It's not rocket surgery.”

“I'm sure you can do it,” she said soothingly. “All you have to do is follow the rules.”

“What rules?”

Julia rolled her eyes. “The rules, Betts! Any crime reader of the Golden Age knows the rules of the game: all clues must be available to the reader, twins are suspect, nuns are evil, and inquisitive spinsters are the best source of information.”

“Like us?”

She ignored me. “Most important, no matter how improbable the murder and its conclusion, the factual details of the crime and investigation should be accurate, or as close as you can get them.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward to me.”

Julia eyed me skeptically. “I thought you weren't going to write mysteries.”

“I'm not! But if I did I could write a cozy that would leave Ms. Weebles's fans shaking in their Little Rascals.”

Julia held up her hands. “Fine, you can write a mystery. Does this mean you've accepted your fate as a part-time detective?”

“I've been called worse.”

Julia cleared her throat. “Speaking of name-calling, I updated my blog this morning and per your request deleted the poll on Edgar versus Grant.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't you want to know who was winning?”

“Absolutely not. Grant obviously has no interest in resuming our relationship despite all his apologies.”

Julia looked uneasy. “Well, I was able to replace your news with something bigger. Nora's selling Black Birches.”

I snorted. “In this market? Good luck.”

“I'm not sure she really needs any luck. She already has a buyer.”

“Who?”

Julia avoided my gaze. “Now, Elspeth, promise me you won't freak out.”

“Why?” My voice rose. “Why would I freak out? Who's buying Nora's place?”

She didn't answer and I saw her gaze shift to a spot somewhere behind my head. I turned to the door and nearly groaned.

It was Grant. He looked as grayishly handsome as ever in a green fisherman's sweater and jeans, and I watched his face break into that old, cocky grin.

“Hello, neighbor.”

 

The End