Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder

Marilyn Rausch

and

Mary Donlon

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

Saint Cloud, Minnesota

“A fast-paced mystery/thriller with an innovative plot that will keep readers guessing until the exciting climax.”

Christopher Valen, award winning author of
Bad Weeds Never Die

“For their debut, the writing duo of Rausch and Donlon deliver an interesting story within a story that flirts with high tech science in a small town.”

Julie Kramer, author of the highly-awarded Riley Spartz series

“A roller coaster ride with some murders, some romance, some mystery, some heartache and lots of humor throughout. Loved it!”

“A great read … funny, clever and oh so entertaining.”

A romp that leads from intense to bucolic and back again.”

“Definitely a must read by two sharp up-and-coming authors.”

“The two story structure is fresh and beautifully done.”

“I can’t wait for the sequel.”

For my dad, who told the best stories, and for my mom, who taught me to cherish my family and friends. MJD

For my children, Edward and Ela, who keep me grounded and make me very proud. MJR

Copyright © 2013 Marilyn Rausch and Mary Donlon

ISBN 978-0-87839-919-2

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition, June 2013

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

Once again, we’d like to sing the praises of our two amazing writers groups, who offered terrific guidance and cheered us along the way. We send our thanks to Kathy, Lesley, Linda, Nico, Deb, Jane and Maureen.

Our sincere appreciation goes to our editor, Cathy Pate, who jumped into the fray just when we needed the her most.

Our gratitude goes out to the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension for taking us on a fascinating tour, along with a special thanks to Eldon, who so patiently answered all our weapons questions.

To our fearless leaders at North Star Press, thanks for making our bucket-list wishes come true!

And, last but not least, we want to send our love to all our family and friends who have made this journey such a joy.  Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

“They say it’s the number of people I killed. I say it’s the principle.”

-Aileen Wuornos, Florida killer executed in 2002

“She isn’t missing. She’s at the farm right now.”

-Edward Gein, Wisconsin murderer and body snatcher

Chapter One

Turners Bend, Iowa

Population 932

Mid-July

So, Chip, I hear Jane turned you down. Sorry, pal.”

Chip Collingsworth removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. His head began to throb at the temples, and his stomach churned. “Who told you, Iver? I hope for our sake not too many people know.”

“Too late. You’ve been in Turners Bend for almost a year now. You should know better. Oh, there may be a few bachelor farmers who haven’t heard yet, but they’ll know after the VFW fish fry on Friday night. But don’t worry, the people in this town won’t spread it around or make you or Jane uncomfortable.”

Chip was astounded at the irony of Iver’s comment. Apparently there was no one left in town
to tell
. The whole town now knew that he had proposed to Jane Swanson, the town’s veterinarian, on the Fourth of July, and she’d said “No.” In addition to saying “No” she said, “I can’t marry you or anyone else right now. I hope we can just be friends. Your past, my past, my children. They’re all problematic. I need time.” Chip knew the cruelest words in a relationship were “just friends.” It was a blow to his ego and an arrow to his lovesick heart. No woman had refused his proposal before, and he’d been married and divorced three times. He had a perfect proposal record, although admittedly, a poor marriage record.
Does the whole town know that, too?

He thought he had left that all behind in Baltimore, but now he wasn’t sure. Last year he had wiped his slate clean and started a new life in Iowa. A life completely and utterly unlike his former existence. But vestiges of it kept rearing their ugly heads like the stupid arcade game, Whac-A-Mole, where you bop a mole on the head and it pops up in another hole.

He and Iver sat in silence at the counter of the Bun, Turners Bend’s café extraordinaire, the home of Iowa’s best and biggest cinnamon rolls. Their rear ends warmed the red Naugahyde-covered stools that had been softened by the behinds of thousands of patrons … town folks who had sipped coffee and eaten homemade pie at the counter since the early 1950s.

Iver was Turners Bend’s Incredible Hulk, a man of tremendous proportions. “Burly” was the best word Chip could think of to describe Iver. He was gentle and unassuming, and above all, generous beyond words. Not only would he give you the shirt off his back; he might give you three million dollars, as he had done recently to bail out the town’s largest industry—a wind turbine company now named after him. Chip had learned you can’t judge a book by the blurbs on the cover, and it was just as true when it came to Iver Ingebretson.

At five-ten and 190 pounds, Chip felt like a featherweight contender next to Iver. When he first met him, Chip was intimidated by Iver’s size alone. Now, much to Chip’s amazement, they were best buds. Sometimes it amused him to imagine Iver in his own past life—Iver at his exclusive prep school, Iver clubbing with him in New York, Iver sailing on the Chesapeake with his father, a noted neurosurgeon.

Bernice put two white mugs down on the counter and filled them with strong, black coffee. It was the kind of coffee that left dark sludge at the bottom of the cup, a brew many patrons doctored with lots of cream and sugar. No trendy coffee drinks, no artificial sweeteners, no non-dairy creamer in little disposable cups at the Bun, “Only the real stuff,” according to Bernice, the Bun’s only waitress.

Pinned to Bernice’s uniform was a button that read: Best Buns in Iowa. “What will it be this morning, boys?” she asked as she ran a well-worn rag over the gray Formica counter in front of them. Bernice never wrote down an order. She usually knew what her customers wanted, sometimes before they opened their mouth.

“Just a cinnamon roll for me, Bernice.”

“Sorry, we’re out of rolls, Chip. You know Thursdays are BOGO days. When customers buy one and get one free, we sell out by 8:30 in the morning. By the way, what did you do with the ring?”

So much for being discreet and not making me uncomfortable.

“I’d rather not discuss it, Bernice. Just give me an order of wheat toast.”

“Well, if you ask me, I’d hang on to that ring. Jane will come around. You two are a match made in heaven … just like Romeo and Juliet.”

Chip was fairly confident Bernice and Shakespeare were not well-acquainted, but nonetheless, it further dampened his spirits. He was a successful crime writer, but a failure at love. And a writer is only as good as his next novel, or so said Lucinda Patterson, his literary agent. Book three of his Dr. John Goodman series was not going well. To be truthful, it wasn’t going at all. Writer’s block had taken up residence in his head.

Soon Lucinda would start her relentless pressure tactics. He had struggled to finish book two,
Brain Freeze
, and missed his deadline. Then Lucinda turned around and put a tighter timetable on
Mind Games
. The woman would be waterboarding him soon if he didn’t produce the first chapter or two. To say his agent was aggressive and pushy was an understatement. She was attractive and classy. Her designer clothes reeked of sophistication and success. But, deep down she was a clawing hellcat, and he had wounds to prove it. Yet, he couldn’t deny a great deal of his success was due to Lucinda.

From the corner of his eye he saw Flora Fredrickson, city clerk and wife of the police chief, move across the café with her coffee mug in hand. Winding her way among the tables, her ample hips bumped into chairs and her black knit pants were stretched to the max. She plopped on the stool next to Chip and placed her pudgy hand with hot pink, lacquered fingernails on his arm. He braced himself.

“You rushed it, dear. After I worked so hard on my matchmaking, too. Fools rush, I suppose. Your track record isn’t stellar, of course, but not to worry; Flora will work her magic again. It will just take more time. Flowers are in order, don’t you think?” she said, as she patted his arm.

To divert Flora’s babbling, Chip ignored her question and brought up her favorite topic—politics. “What do you think about the two women candidates for president, Flora?”

“I tell you, it just fries my bacon! We finally have women candidates for president and they turn out to be idiots. It’s a fact that women are a hell of a lot smarter than men. There are more women than men in this country, and we would be much better off if one of them was president … except not one of those morons.”

“You know what I think you should do, Flora? You should run for Congress,” Iver piped in.

“Well, I very well might do just that. I think I would make a very good congresswoman. I’m a lot like Hillary, and we all know what a smart cookie she is.”

“On second thought, I don’t know. What with all those extra-marital affairs going on, like in the legislature up in Minnesota, you might get yourself into a pickle,” Iver said.

He began to laugh and Flora punched him in the arm, which only made him laugh harder. She turned her attention back to Chip.

“You need a haircut … you’re looking a little shaggy. Now as I was saying about Jane …”

“I know you’re well-meaning, Flora, but Jane apparently needs some time and space. Plus, I’m preoccupied right now. The movie version of
The Cranium Killer
, my first book, premieres next spring and the publication date for
Brain Freeze
is this December. So I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

“Well, far be it from me to meddle,” Flora said as she slid off the stool and sashayed back to her table of cronies, which included several local business owners and her husband, Police Chief Walter Frederickson.