Dying to Be Murdererd, Page 4

  “If she’s dead, why has her room been kept like that, with all her things in it?” she asked.

  “That was her dad’s doing. He was never quite right after she died, and he refused to let anyone move a thing. He insisted Melba clean it personally, once a week, change the sheets, as if Juliet might come back any day. Melba still does it, like clockwork, even though Mr. Ashton is dead. Habit, I guess.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “She died twenty-nine years ago.”

  “Goodness. How old was she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “How did it happen? An accident?” There were no good ways to die, but some were preferable to others.

  “This is how my grandpap told it to me. He was the one who found her.”

  “Found her dead, you mean?”

  “Stone cold.” Arthur leaned forward. “Lying in the bathtub, naked as a jay bird, both wrists slit open, the water cold and red as cranberry juice.”

  She could see Juliet in her mind’s eye, sunk back against one end of the porcelain, claw foot tub, her sparkling eyes shut, the ends of her long hair dipped in the blood-red water. Jennifer shuddered. At least she hadn’t died in the bed, Jennifer mused, a truly selfish thought but one that might allow her to make it through the night in that house.

  “Melba had come to fetch him, all out of breath. She knew Juliet had to be in there, but she couldn’t get an answer when she knocked. The door was locked and she couldn’t get it open. Grandpap had to break it in. That’s the story I heard as a kid.”

  “Why’d she do it? Juliet, I mean?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “What do you know about her life?”

  “He never said much more about her, not one way or t’other. If you want to know what she was like, you can look through her things, ain’t nobody gonna know. All those peace signs, flowers, and hippie crap. I figure she was into drugs, at least marijuana.”

  So he had been curious enough to look.

  “Not to rush you along, but I do have a full meal to finish preparing,” he said.

  Jennifer needed to get a move on anyway. She had to take Muffy for a walk before she left for her writers’ group. She gulped down the last bite of squash and finished off her milk, then stashed the rest of the muffin in a paper napkin. It was far too good to waste, and she’d probably be hungry before bedtime.

  “This grandpap of yours. What’s his name?”

  “Luther Johnson.”

  “Does he live around here?”

  “Sure. Down off Log Cabin Drive. Why?”

  “No reason. Just thought I might drop by to see him sometime.”

  He threw her a sly look. “So you plannin’ to stay on a while?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Let me give you a little advice my grandpap gave me when Mrs. Ashton asked me on to cook for her: Do your job, do it right, but don’t you ever sleep in that house at night.”

  Chapter 9

  Thanks to Muffy, Jennifer was almost twenty minutes late arriving at Monique’s house. Muffy hadn’t liked the outside of the Ashton mansion any more than she liked the inside, so it took her twice as long as usual to do her business. Then when Jennifer finally got her back upstairs, gave her three treats, and shut her into Juliet’s room, she whimpered so pitifully through the door, Jennifer almost didn’t have the heart to leave her. Almost. Enough with the theatrics. One of them had to bury her yellow streak, and Muffy wasn’t volunteering.

  So the group had already begun reading when Teri answered the door. She shushed Jennifer and led her to her usual spot on the sectional sofa next to Leigh Ann, who grinned and drew up her short legs to make room.

  Teri planted herself back on the floor on her tummy, arched her back in a most unnatural, serpentine fashion, and then rested her head on the palms of her hands. Jennifer pretended not to notice her staring up at her with a thoughtful expression playing on her almost exotic cocoa features.

  She hadn’t spoken to Teri since Monique had talked her into going to see Mary, and for good reason. Teri always had an opinion, one she never kept to herself. In this case, Jennifer knew exactly what it would be: was she out of her mind?

  April waved from her spot on Monique’s other sofa, her bright blue eyes shining in her pleasantly round face, and lifted a baggie in Jennifer’s direction. She plucked something small and dark out of the bag, probably a chocolate-covered raisin. She used the raisin part to justify the chocolate and pretend it was nutritious.

  April was a grazer, constantly foraging, constantly rationalizing. When she was pregnant, it was because of the baby, and when she wasn’t, it was because of her metabolism. Now it was because she was nursing.

  Little Colette was finally old enough for April to leave for several hours. Poor Craig. Jennifer couldn’t imagine anything worse than trying to distract a breast-fed baby who had never taken a bottle. Once she decided she was hungry, he had no options. Jon, their four-year-old, was just one more handful to add to the mix. And, of course, April refused to carry a cell phone. Group was her only evening out.

  Jennifer shook her head at April, refusing the raisins, and carefully avoided Monique’s gaze. She didn’t want to give her an invitation to comment on her tardiness. But she shouldn’t have worried. She stole a glance in Monique’s direction. Her plain, dignified face was a blistery red, and it wasn’t because of Jennifer’s late arrival or some imagined slight over Mary asking Jennifer to stay with her. She was holding pages. She rarely read, and despite her unquestioned reign as the only published novelist among them, it obviously made her nervous. Insecurity. It was the bane of a writer’s existence, so much so, it had even dared to strike Monique.

  She began again. “‘Gor-roc thumped his brightly plumed chest and clicked his tongue in a long trill that danced out of the range of human hearing. He was summoning them, the Shades of Orithirium, the spirits of the dead, both those long passed over and those most recent. Moments passed and then the air filled with them, thousands upon thousands of shadowy life-forms, graying the air, as though a fog so thick no one could see their own hands had settled over the group, blotting out all but the faintest light.’”

  Ah, yes. Orithirium. The “dead” on that world dwelled only a thin dimension away from the “living” inhabitants. They could be summoned at will by a Caller-of-the-Dead. They couldn’t speak to the living, only pantomime their thoughts and reactions, but they could hear the Callers. The shades had the ability to follow the Great Curve of Time and, if not exactly predict the future, show where the actions of the living were taking them.

  Yuck. The thought of it made Jennifer shudder and question where her own actions were leading her. She preferred her dimensions well divided. And ghosts, friendly or not, completely out of her awareness. And out of the room she would be sleeping in that night.

  Gor-roc, as she recalled, had suddenly become aware of his abilities camping late one night on a great battleground. Callers did not choose their ability. It came upon them unsuspected, when they happened upon a Thin Shell, a place between the dimensions where the separation, through the number or emotional magnitude of the deaths, had made the division even less defined.

  Doesn’t anyone have anything else to read tonight, Jennifer wondered, hoping Teri or April would wave their pages and insist they needed help right away. They all knew Gor-roc’s adventure by heart, and it wasn’t making for good bedtime thoughts.

  Monique went on. “‘Covering their ears with the webs of their hands, the Thesperians fell to their knees, writhing in pain, as the first rising moon cast a red glow illuminating the fog of shadows—’”

  “Excuse me.” Leigh Ann sat up and raised her hand. She was a braver soul than Jennifer. Or stupider. She was breaking a cardinal rule: never interrupt when someone is reading.

  “I know I’ve asked this before,” Leigh Ann continued fearlessly, “but aren’t those actors?”

  Was that a growl? Monique didn’t growl. Or
did she?

  “I said Thesperians, not thespians.”

  “Oh, sorry. Must have heard you wrong. But don’t you think those words are too close to one another? Every time you say it I get this mental image of a crowd of actors in gorgeous medieval costumes—lots of velvet and brocade, with laced bodices, ruffled shirts, and tights—right out of Shakespeare.”

  “They’re green and lizard-like,” Teri reminded her, peering at her with half-lidded eyes.

  “Well, I know, which is exactly my point. That word simply does not conjure up a reptilian image. But maybe it’s just me. Sorry. Continue.”

  If it were possible, the blush in Monique’s face deepened. “‘...the red of the moon turned gold. The trill stopped and a terrified chant rose up among the living, crouched in subservience. “Hail to mighty Gor-roc, Caller of the Dead.” The second moon had risen and cast a blue-green glow...’”

  “Excuse me.” Leigh Ann again. Jennifer put a warning hand on her arm, but she forged boldly ahead. “If one moon is glowing gold, how could the other one glow—”

  “They’re not both real moons,” April reminded her, tugging on a long, blonde tress. “It was in the other part. Monique didn’t start at the beginning this time. Remember?”

  Why had Monique dragged Gor-roc back out? It wasn’t as if that book hadn’t been to every publisher in the English-speaking world and most of the agents this side of New Zealand. Nobody was going to take it on. Not because it wasn’t a good story—assuming the reader could relate to a nonspeaking, tongue-clicking alien hero—because it was. And not because it wasn’t well written. It was simply because publishers and agents had already passed on it. Nothing short of changing the title, all the main character names, and most of the plot—which meant basically rewriting the whole book—and her name was likely to get it another look. Monique had said so herself. Yet she simply wouldn’t move on. What revision was this? Sixty? Her first book had been published years ago, and she was desperate to sell another. But it wouldn’t be this one.

  “Let it go.”

  Monique dropped her pages in her lap, and Leigh Ann, Teri, and April all stared at her with a kind of terror on their faces. Oh, cripes. Had Jennifer said that out loud?

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” Teri asked, rising up, sitting back on her heels. Under her breath, she added, “You got a death wish I don’t know about?”

  Jennifer pulled herself up. She’d said it and she couldn’t take it back, so she might as well finish. “Monique, the best advice you ever gave me was to write something new when my Maxie Malone series didn’t sell, even though I’d written two sequels. I still haven’t given up on it, probably never will, but I doubt it’ll be the first book I sell. And I know I can write other characters now. I’ve completed six more manuscripts to prove it. Gor-roc has done his thing with the Thesperians, and the editors don’t care. You have a wonderful point to make only they’re not going to let you make it, at least not with a Caller-of-the-Dead. You’ve polished that manuscript to absolute perfection. What more can you possibly do to it? You’re a wonderful writer, Monique. You have other stories to tell. It’s time to give Gor-roc a rest. You need to move on.”

  Jennifer stared straight ahead at Monique rocking away in that damned rocker, not saying a word, not for at least one full minute, and held her breath.

  Without breaking eye contact, Monique laid her pages on the floor. “So, anyone else have anything to discuss?”

  It was horrible. She’d hurt Monique, hurt her in her most vulnerable spot, and that wasn’t what this group was about. But it was also about honesty. Where was the line between the two?

  “I do,” April volunteered, as though they were, indeed, ready to move right along. “I didn’t want to say too much before because I wanted to make sure. It’s so easy to get your hopes up in this business and—”

  “Spit it out,” Teri demanded.

  “I’ve been offered a contract.”

  Jennifer felt as though she’d been slammed up against a wall. Monique was no longer looking at Jennifer. They were all staring in April’s direction. Had she heard right? A contract? It seemed like a mythical concept, like a unicorn. Did they really exist? Had April actually seen one?

  “What with being pregnant and then having the baby and all, I kept putting off finishing that first book in the series, The Case of the Missing Nuts, the one that children’s editor requested. Remember I told you about it? It’s the one about eight-year-old Billy and his sidekick Barney, the flying squirrel. They solve simple little mysteries involving items a child might find in a yard—acorns, leaves, tulip bulb, that sort of thing—and a trio of dastardly chipmunks.

  “Well, I did it,” she went on. “Every morning for the past two months I sat Jonathan down in front of Sesame Street, put Colette down for a nap, and I finished it. I sent it off two weeks ago. She called me this morning.”

  April sat there grinning at them, her blonde hair lying soft on her shoulders, one of the sweetest people Jennifer had ever met. No one deserved it more.

  So why, for three seconds, did they all want her dead?

  Then it sunk in. At last. After all this time, someone other than Monique was going to be published. Published!

  Leigh Ann started the clapping, and they all joined in. Then they rushed her—Leigh Ann, Jennifer, and Teri—laughing, hugging, truly happy, tangling into one large giggling wad of arms, legs, and heads. The sofa tipped back against the wall with a thump.

  Monique, who had remained calmly in her seat, cleared her throat. Loudly. The four-headed creature strained to look.

  “Did you bring champagne?” she asked April.

  “Can’t. I’m nursing.”

  “Well, we can. I’ve got a bottle I’ve been saving since this group first got together.”

  “That should make it nicely aged,” Teri threw in.

  “You get milk,” Monique told April, ignoring Teri. “The rest of us get champagne.”

  Jennifer made out Monique’s comment, mumbled almost out of earshot as she led the way to the kitchen. “I need a drink.”

  Chapter 10

  Jennifer never drank much. One glass of champagne made her woozy. More than that destroyed the filter that kept most of her thoughts from pouring right out of her mouth. Now they had toasted all the way to the bottom of a second glass. If they didn’t stop soon, she’d be spending the night on Monique’s sofa, or more probably, her floor.

  “You could have mentioned the Ashton mansion had dead people in it before you sent me to stay there,” she told Monique right in the middle of toasting Teri’s future success, having already tipped one to Leigh Ann’s, Monique’s, and her own, not to mention a whole round for April’s impending stardom.

  Monique took the empty champagne glass from Jennifer’s hand and set it in the sink.

  She followed Monique, leaning over and whispering loudly in her ear. “And you conveniently forgot to tell me that Mary Bedford Ashton is totally whacko. Do you know Juliet’s room is exactly like it was when she was alive? I understand that a mother—”

  “Mary wasn’t Juliet’s mother,” Monique said, setting down her own glass and turning to face Jennifer.

  “But I thought—”

  “Mary married Shelby sometime in the late nineteen-fifties, I think, could even have been as late as nineteen-sixty. Juliet was in elementary school. She was older than me by a year or two, but I vaguely remember the wedding. She was the flower girl. Her mother had died not too long before. I don’t remember what from.”

  The fog cleared from Jennifer’s brain just as Leigh Ann, April, and Teri sang out the chorus of “My Way” loudly and off key. She wanted to shush them. Instead she leaned in closer toward Monique. “Mary told me she was the love of Shelby’s life.”

  “If she was, he had at least one love before her: Juliet’s mother Clarisse. The only true memory I have of her is her voice, soft and musical. And the touch of her hand. So warm, so loving. She always hugged us—every o
ne of the children who came to her home to visit—before she sent us off to play.”

  Jennifer saw the water gathering in Monique’s eyes, and she wondered if Monique hadn’t had anything to drink, whether she’d be telling her any of this.

  In the background, April hit a particularly discordant note and then dissolved in a fit of giggles.

  “Her death frightened me,” Monique confessed, rinsing Jennifer’s glass. “I worried that my own mother might die.”

  Jennifer touched her arm. “That’s a natural fear.”

  Monique offered a rare, shy smile. “My mother told me not to worry. Clarisse was in heaven, watching over us. I’ve never once doubted it.”

  “How could he replace her?” Jennifer asked, suddenly irrationally protective of a woman she’d never met and who had died before she was born.

  “Mary certainly was beautiful. I guess he simply wanted Juliet to have a mother. He doted on that child. He gave her everything, including a baby blue Mustang for her high school graduation. I was so jealous. God, I wanted that car.” She scooped her glass back up and drained what was left. “That was one of my first life lessons. Don’t envy anyone. Within six months she was dead.”

  “We’re running out of bubbly over here,” Leigh Ann announced. “What else you got?”

  “I think there’s a bottle of wine someone brought to the house last Christmas,” Monique offered over her shoulder. “Look on the right in the back of the pantry.”

  “Juliet died from suicide,” Jennifer said quietly.

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Were you close?”

  “No. But a teenager doesn’t have to know someone well for their death to affect her. She’d always been in my life, and then, suddenly, she wasn’t. You say that room’s been kept exactly the same all these years?”

  Jennifer nodded.

  “God. Who would have thought it? Juliet hated her.”

  “You’re kidding. Why?”

  “Maybe it was teenage rebellion. No, it couldn’t have been. She never liked her, not from the moment Mary walked into their lives.” Monique shrugged. “I don’t know.”