MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Page 13

  Her face emptied and her expression was replaced with concern as though she’d made a mistake. “I had some work to do that couldn’t wait. I had to confirm something first.”

  “Well, I doubt the mistake is fatal, but normal procedure is to inventory the evidence first and then check it out.”

  “Oh,” she said, her hand on the lip of the bag while her eyes darted from me to the stairs and to the evidence room.

  “Every station processes evidence a bit differently, and you didn’t know. I can take it to Jimmy,” I offered, and pinched the plastic between my fingers, seizing on the opportunity.

  Jenna frowned and put on a latex glove, ignoring my offer. “You already know what I’m going to show you. Don’t you?” she opened the bag and began to fish through the contents. A moment later, Jenna revealed Amy’s ring. “This is your wife’s ring. I recognized it out in the field when searching the victim’s pockets. It’s the one you were trying to match for a gift.”

  I dipped my chin and leaned back into my chair, shrugging as though unsure. She cocked her head and frowned, annoyed by my response. We’d seen the same reaction time and time again when interviewing suspects who tried to feign ignorance to prove innocence. A twinge of embarrassment came to me, knowing she’d see through my attempt. It wouldn’t get me far anyway. It was Amy’s ring in Jenna’s hand—gaudy and big and with plenty of room for a partial fingerprint—there was no denying it. And it would be her epithelials they’d find to match a DNA study once the crime lab completed an analysis. I shrugged again and added, “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jenna.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong!” she answered, sounding alarmed and raising her voice. The station quieted, and I felt the sudden stare of upturned faces and signaled for her to lower her voice. She took to her chair, pulling it close enough to me that we were facing one another and sitting knee to knee. “Tell me how absolutely impossible it is that your wife’s ring ended up on a dead man’s body... Damn it, Steve, tell me something I can use, so I don’t have to arrest your wife!”

  “Give me the ring,” I begged. I kept my voice steady and in a whisper, but it shook as I spoke. “Forget you ever saw it. Please, Jenna. The evidence hasn’t been checked in yet. Nobody would ever have to know.”

  “Steve,” she answered, straightening her back and shaking her head as if I’d slapped her. I found her eyes and saw the disappointment in them. I turned away in shame like a sinner facing judgment. “Steve, I can’t do that! You know I could never do that.”

  My chin trembled as the stark images of my broken family returned. “I know,” I muttered. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask.”

  She stared at me for a moment, and I held her gaze.

  “Let’s get another sample,” she said, lifting her voice and breathing life into the possibility of saving my family. “As odd as it sounds, Williams having the ring could be a mere coincidence with an equally sick timing. He could’ve picked it up at your house. Right? Regardless, we’d still need another DNA sample from your wife. Some hair to compare for a match.”

  “I can do that,” I answered, adding hope to my words. And I could too. I could go home, take some hair from my daughter’s hairbrush or even my mother’s or even the dog. It didn’t matter where the hair sample came from, as long as Jenna thought it was Amy’s. “Give me an hour. I’ll bring it to you.”

  “I have to check this in first and get forensics started,” she said while I watched Amy’s ring disappear into the evidence bag. “And Steve, you do understand, I’ll have to go with you and perform the collection.”

  My heart sank again. Of course, she’d go with me. It was her case. It was her evidence to collect. “I understand,” I told her and turned back to log off of my computer.

  * * *

  I drove to our home, giving Jenna an opportunity to prepare the paperwork while I tried to think of a way out of this. But my mind emptied. I couldn’t concentrate. Everything was a sudden distraction. The cab of my pickup truck filled with Jenna’s smell, adding to the strangeness, adding to the surreal feelings of what we were about to do. I stayed below the speed limit, reaching the middle of town and Romeo’s restaurant where an old work truck in front of us came to an abrupt stop—the sloppy grunts of its diesel motor spewing black smoke, choking the air with a soiled cloud. I stomped on my brakes, sending Jenna’s cell phone to the floor with a thud.

  “Damn!” she scolded. “Can’t afford to break another one of these.”

  “Sorry about that,” I offered as she unbuckled her seatbelt and dipped below the dash to find it. When the top of her head cleared the passenger window, I looked out the cab’s window to the restaurant I’d taken Amy on most of our anniversaries and celebrations. Romeo’s parking lot was packed for lunch, and in the mix of lunch goers, I found Amy’s car. “She’s out. She’s out of the house.” At least our timing was good. We could get in and out of my house in a few minutes.

  “What’s that?” Jenna asked, returning to her seat and cleaning off her cell phone. “Couldn’t hear you.”

  “Not important,” I answered, shaking my head while I drove around the stalled truck.

  “Steve, listen—” Jenna began in that same assuring voice I’d heard at the station. “I want you to know I’m on your side with this one. I want to clear your wife. But what if she did it? Have you considered that?”

  I shook my head, intending to show disbelief. But in my heart, I knew she’d killed Garret Williams. I just didn’t know why. Jenna leaned forward, waiting for me to answer. My chest thumped hard, and the nauseous feelings from anxiety returned.

  “I want to believe she didn’t do this,” I finally said, admitting more than I should have while saying little. I quickly rephrased what I said to, “I have to believe she didn’t do this.”

  Jenna touched my arm, laying her hand on mine the way people do when comforting one another at a hospital or a funeral. Is that what this was? Waiting for my wife’s death? It sure felt that way. “Let’s get what we need and then clear your wife of the case.”

  We were minutes from my front door and passed over Neshaminy Creek. I felt the urge to turn off the road, but my ideas couldn’t see around the corners and come up with what to do next. I kept to the speed limit as my mind numbed. The town’s houses and road signs melted away, trickling into nothingness as I found myself following Jenna and her directions.

  It was hopeless.

  * * *

  What began as the longest minutes of my life soon became hours and then days. Detective Jenna White had entered my home where I’d directed her to our bathroom and to where my wife’s hairbrush lay near the sink. With the faucet sounding a steady drip, I watched helplessly as the detective collected the hair samples. The days that followed—days of waiting and wondering—were some of the longest and loneliest I’d ever had. When the forensics report came back confirming Amy’s DNA as a match to what was found at the scene of the Williams murder, I thought about taking Amy and the kids and running.

  But I couldn’t do that. It was with great pain that I finally decided that we were done. I couldn’t help Amy any more. I wouldn’t help her any more.

  The message from Jenna came to me during a weekend away with Amy—a getaway weekend we had planned some time ago to help us get past the loss of our baby. It was drinks and food and long walks on the beach. The idea was to put a spark back into our relationship, but if the Detective got her way, I’d be going home alone.

  “Can you wait until we get back to town?” I texted a reply to Jenna. A stiff breeze came up behind me, surrounding me with the smell of the beach and sea. “Let me bring her in.” I peered up in time to see Amy approach. It was our last day, and she wanted a walk in the surf before the sun disappeared behind the crisp line of the horizon.

  “Can’t do that, Steve,” Jenna texted. “We’re driving in and will be there in a few minutes.”

  Amy’s bare feet rubbed against the walkway, catching my attention. I dropped the phone b
ack into my pocket. Her face was hard to see against the sky while the last of the day’s buttery sunlight showed through the thin fabric of her sundress.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, tapping my pocket. Her face came up to mine and our lips met briefly, and she took hold of my hand. “You know the rules. No business. No work. This is our time.”

  “Just my mom,” I told her, glancing over my shoulder to listen for the approach of police cars. “She wanted to tell me the kids were good.”

  We reached the break of water, the surf turning foamy as it tumbled and ran toward our feet. The seawater was cold, and my toes instantly disappeared into the wet sand as the current drew the water back into the ocean. The taste of salt found my lips as the surf rushed over my feet again, warmer this time. Amy grabbed my hand, wove her fingers with mine, and reached up to my lips. She was trying to be romantic, but romance was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn’t hesitate, though. I didn’t say a word. I kissed her, playing along, waiting for the arrest to go down. But I was dying inside.

  I kissed her as tenderly as though we’d just discovered we were in love. I had to remind myself that I was holding a killer, a murderer.

  In sickness and in health, I heard in my head.

  A wave crashed onto our feet. Amy leaped back playfully, pulling my arms to follow her. I followed, but by now I’d heard the first of the police vehicles approach, saw a faint reflection of blue and red on one of the sandy dunes.

  “I love you,” she told me and pressed her hand against my leg, against the wound that had almost ended my life. “And I love that you’ve done so much to change. You’re going to be the best damn district attorney this town has ever had.”

  I swallowed hard—my mouth had become as dry as the sand. I put on a smile as Amy kissed me again. I wanted to die.

  Another sound came then, car doors slamming and a radio’s static rasp and police chatter. But the noise drifted in the wind along with gulls calling and waves breaking. Amy didn’t notice. I held her, knowing what was coming and thinking suddenly that she might run. She returned my hug, fitting her body to mine the way she always did.

  But when the sounds came again, Amy heard them. Instinctively, I held her, as distant voices called across the beach and hard-soled shoes clomped through the sand.

  “What’s going on?” Amy asked, looking confused. She wrenched herself free, stepping away from me as a half-dozen people dressed in dark suits and police uniforms surrounded us.

  “Amy...” I pleaded in a calm tone.

  But she ignored me. A scowl came over her face, and she stared at the police like a cornered animal.

  “Amy, you’ve got to go with them.”

  “Steve! What’s going on?” she cried.

  She spun around to run, finding Detective Jenna White standing there. Their eyes locked as everyone came to rest where they stood. Amy froze, her legs shin deep in the breaking surf while some of the officers stood guarding us, and others waded into the water, blocking Amy from the ocean. The daylight was fading fast, and I motioned for Jenna to get on with it. The last thing I wanted to see happen was Amy diving into the water and disappearing into the night.

  As if Amy had heard my thoughts, she moved deeper into the ocean, her body cutting the glimmer of sunlight as it carved a thin line of red and orange across the water’s surface.

  “Amy Sholes?” Detective Jenna White asked. Her voice was deep and sounded formal. On cue, the surrounding officers stepped closer.

  Amy flinched when she heard her name. She searched past the detective, finding my eyes. I shrank back and wanted to run, feeling I’d betrayed my wife. She’s a murderer, I reminded myself again. But in my heart, I didn’t care. I loved her.

  I’m sorry, I mouthed. She turned away, a distant look in her eyes and the questions in her expression fading. She searched the ocean, swallowing hard against tears that seemed to tell me the truth about Garret Williams. But why she killed him was still a mystery—the obvious answer, an affair, was impossible for me to believe.

  Amy turned back again, looking lost in deciding what to do. And in her face I could see her spirit dying. She knew she’d been caught. And then I saw anger and resentment beaming toward me. It was my turn to look away.

  “Yes,” Amy answered the detective. “My name is Amy Sholes.”

  It felt as though my legs were going to give, and I braced myself, favoring my good leg as I braved a step away from my wife, giving the officers the room they’d need to place handcuffs on her. Amy stood alone.

  At once, she lunged for me, but the officers were well trained and were triggered by her actions. Jenna raised her hands, stopping the officers mid-step like a dog trainer signaling the animals to halt.

  “Stand down!” I screamed in a voice that was shaky with emotion. I scanned the officer’s stone faces and then Detective White’s, pleading with her in my mind to make this easy.

  Detective White nodded.

  “Babe?” Amy asked, her eyes turning soft and beautiful again. “Why?”

  She began to cry, and I wanted to go to her, to hold her, to tell her everything would be okay. I felt my heart break for a millionth time as tears welled and fell. Amy didn’t say anything else, but instead she squared her shoulders and straightened her back.

  “Amy, you have to go with them,” I told her. I kept my voice deep and empty. And then I gave her one final look as a husband. I filled my eyes with love for her and repeated our vows in my head. I turned away after that and fixed a look on the sun setting behind a ridge in the west.

  “Amy Sholes.” I heard Detective White direct again. I heard Amy’s sobbing voice and then the sounds of splashing and of a body diving into the ocean. The officers raced passed me and waded into the ocean after my wife, rescuing her from drowning herself.

  “Please, Amy,” I shouted without turning around, but I knew she couldn’t hear me. “Go with them. I can’t... I won’t help you.”

  “Amy Sholes, you are under the arrest for the murder of Garret Williams,” I heard Detective White say, adding the final words that closed the door on our life together.

  “In sickness and in murder,” I muttered sadly and walked away.

  Q&A with B.A. Spangler

  I have a feeling there’s more to the story of the murdering Mrs. Sholes. Is this connected to some of your other books?

  “In Sickness and in Murder” is a short story based on my series, An Affair with Murder. The story came to me while finishing the second book of the series. An Affair with Murder centers around Amy Sholes—a mother and wife and who just happens to be a serial killer. I thought it would make for an interesting read, switching perspectives and giving readers the same point of view Amy’s husband had when he discovered that his wife was a murderer.

  Anything in your background that led you to write mysteries? Or were you just drawn to the genre as a fan yourself?

  Like many writers, I write in multiple genres, favoring the types of stories I love to read. Some are science fiction, while others are mysteries. This is my first series in crime mysteries.

  Any works in progress?

  The first draft of book 3 in the series is complete and should be available in early 2017. I’m also working up a new kidnapping mystery with one of the characters from the short story, Detective Jenna White.

  Let us know where readers can be in touch and find out about new books.

  My website, writtenbybrian.com and Facebook page are the best places to stay in touch with me.

  Nun of Your Business

  by Jerilyn Dufresne

  I never thought when I left the convent that I’d be killed by a husband I didn’t know I had.

  When Mother Evangela allowed me to take a leave of absence to discern if being a nun was my true vocation, I was scared, even though I’d requested the leave. My knees shook as I took off the veil and habit. And I swear my whole body shook as I walked out the door dressed like a civilian. But I relaxed as soon as I put my hand through my sh
ort, curly, red hair… and I laughed as I felt the wind ruffle it.

  I hardly had time to take a breath before it happened.

  A nondescript black limo pulled up, the darkened window went down, and a guy in the passenger seat said, “You Sister Mary Jordan?”

  There was nothing else I could do but say yes. Even though I was in civvies, I was still a sister, bound by my temporary vows.

  “Get in,” he commanded in a voice from The Sopranos.

  Again, I thought, what else could I do? My upbringing had taught me that these kinds of cars weren’t scary, but were “normal” vehicles in my family’s business. Besides, I couldn’t outrun a car, especially in the clunky shoes I was wearing. I didn’t have a cell phone to call for help, and there was no one around I could turn to.

  The back door opened as if by magic, and I ducked to slide in.

  The back seat wasn’t empty.

  “Joey!” I smiled and hugged my twin brother.

  “Jordie,” he said. “Lookin’ good.”

  I probably should have already told you that my family is connected. Yeah, in that way, and for many years. They have various specialties, but Papa always said they didn’t do “wet work”—for the uninitiated, that means they don’t kill people—a fact I always appreciated.

  “Still playing Robin Hood?” I asked him.

  “Yeah,” he chuckled, “rob from the rich and give to the family.” His dark eyes shone, and his smile revealed perfect teeth. Too perfect.

  Sitting back in the seat, I asked him, “How did you know I’d be walking out today? I didn’t know myself until Mother Evangela finally said yes.”