Murder Takes A Bow - A Betty Crawford Mystery (The Betty Crawford Mysteries) (19 page)

"It makes sense," her friend said.

Betty placed an arm around her friend’s shoulders and started spurring her up the stairs. "We’re going to have a good night," she said. "You all can have a "be mad at Betty" party down here if you want."

She could hear Bill explaining the security measures he was going to place around their house in the morning as she mounted the stairs. She felt a little warm spot in her chest as she noted the real concern in his voice. She supposed that she should really be touched by the personal interest he was taking in her case. Not every citizen could say that they had the police chief looking out for their safety personally.

She almost called off her more annoying plans.

But, when he left her parents to go find a place to stand watch, she heard him start to hum "Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer" in soft tones that only she could hear.

Oh yeah. They were on.

"Clarise?" she asked. "I can’t find my Abba CD. Want to make a playlist on freemusic.com and do our nails?" Together, she and Clarise picked a list of the most girly, annoying songs they could think of. Abba. Aqua. Backstreet Boys. Grease.

Who said she couldn’t tap into her inner child?

They watched chick flicks, and Betty even let herself have a couple Oreos. She made sure to check her blood sugar every so often to make sure she wasn’t overdoing it. She was getting used to using her new meter, and Clarise didn’t mind in the least. She let herself have free reign of the no sugar gum and candy she’d bought.

When they tired of sappy love stories, Clarise and Betty spent time squealing in front of the computer at the best window shopping ever on polyvore.com. They designed outfits they could never hope to afford, and bookmarked a few more reasonably priced items for their respective wish lists.

Betty made sure to squeal extra loud to drown out Bill’s humming.

At around three in the morning, Bill’s humming had tapered off and Clarise was sleeping soundly. Betty tiptoed downstairs to get a drink. The swing on the front porch creaked. She peeked out the window. Bill was pushing the swing back and forth with one foot, scanning the yard with night goggles. She put on the kettle, moving quietly around the kitchen until it boiled. Tea with lemon for herself and coffee for Bill. He was a policeman right? Coffee was the logical choice. It looked like he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon tonight. Briefly, Betty wondered if the addiction policemen had to coffee developed right around the time they had their first stake out.

Watching Bill out the kitchen window, Betty felt a pang of guilt. Bill might be overprotective, but he was right. She hadn’t thought over the consequences of painting a target on her own back. Putting herself at risk, well… she was okay with that. In Betty’s mind, some things were simply worth taking risks for. Reclaiming the sleepy, trusting feel that Lofton residents had been privilege to since the town’s founding was worth taking risks for. Until some creep had showed up with homicidal tendencies, the most scandalous thing the Gossiping Grannies had had to work with was a van of Yanks coming through town and refusing to clean up after their dog. That was just bad manners, and bad manners were unacceptable.

And clearing Clarise’s name was something worth putting herself at risk for. If the murderer wasn’t found, and soon, the townspeople would always look askance at Clarise. They would wonder if the police hadn’t been right the first time. And to have Clarise under such scrutiny for the decades that small town memory could last was simply unacceptable.

But Bill wasn’t camped out in her window, guarding an attack into her bedroom. He was watching her house. The house where both her parents and Clarise were sleeping. What she had done was making them unsafe. For that, she felt horrible.

Betty brought the mugs out onto the porch and sat beside Bill, careful not to let the rocking motion of the swing slosh hot liquid over the rims of the mugs.

"Here," she said. "Truce? I thought you might need a pick me up."

Bill put aside the night goggles to take the coffee from her. He cupped the mug in both hands and blew on it. Steam curled up and away.

Neither spoke for a long moment, letting the early crickets and spring peepers fill the conversation space. It was an odd silence, Betty thought. She felt completely comfortable, and yet charged with words unspoken. She wasn’t quite sure what those words were.

Betty cast a glance at Bill’s profile. His posture was completely relaxed into the back of the swing, but his neck peered forward, his eyes searching the yard and road from over his coffee.

"Thank you," she blurted. The sound of her own voice was loud enough to startle her, and Betty lowered her voice before continuing, filling the void her embarrassment left with the first thing that came to mind. "Sorry for the music."

Bill chuckled. "I probably deserved it."

"Hmmm… Maybe a little. There are only so many times I can hear Henry the Eighth without developing homicidal tendencies myself."

He turned to face her in the swing, causing the swing to let out a creak in protest. "For the record, I’m still mad at you." Betty forced herself to meet his eyes. He had a crease between his eyes. She knew she was exhausted when she had to check and impulse to reach out and smooth it away. "Betty… this isn’t a game. People are dead. I don’t want you joining them."

"I don’t want to join them either," Betty whispered, transfixed by his face.

"Well, you certainly don’t act like it."

Betty blinked herself out of her trance. "You wouldn’t listen!" Betty said, trying to keep her voice low.

"Oh," said Bill with a hint of contempt spicing his words. "So this is my fault."

"No!" Betty protested. "No. Of course not." And it wasn’t. Even she could see that.

Bill shifted to make himself more comfortable. Betty braced her foot against the porch to keep the swing from rocking too hard. When Bill continued, his voice was soft, almost pleading. "Then explain it to me. Why turn yourself into a walking target?"

Betty didn’t know that she could explain it, even if she wanted to. Her reasons at the time were foggy. But now… now she could see herself more clearly. She remembered frustration that he didn’t seem to be taking her seriously. There had been guilt over Melody’s death, and an incredible anger. Everything lately had just been spinning out of control. Her whole world was being turned upside down. Death. Diabetes. More death. Even the theater, her one completely dependable escape from drama and mayhem, had been tainted. And here, here she had had the ability to maybe, just maybe, fix some of it. She’d needed to try.

But telling Bill all of that… it would start a conversation she didn’t have nearly enough energy for. And besides, surely he wouldn’t want to hear her pity party. So she just looked out across the road to where the marshy woods started and said, "I don’t know."

Bill sighed and reached over to pull her into the curve of his arm. She leaned against him, and felt him lean his cheek on her hair. "Well, when you figure it out, you let me know."

For some reason, Betty couldn’t find it in her to protest.

CHAPTER 29

In the morning, Bill was gone. The ear piece and wire were gone from her side table. Betty felt a pang of disappointment that he wouldn’t be sitting on her porch swing that night, but she pushed the emotion away as silly. It’s not like Bill had meant anything by his actions.

No, she was being ridiculous. And it was time to cook breakfast anyhow. Fortunately, breakfast was the one meal she wouldn’t have to change too much for diabetes. In fact, she now had the doctor’s permission to ditch her horrid "health nut’ carbo load cereals and indulge in her number one absolute favorite breakfast of all time: omelets! They were the perfect comfort food, and one of the best items in her cooking arsenal. Clarise tried to leave without eating Betty’s comfort food feast, but Betty glared her to the table. Clarise was dressed impeccably in a pair of slacks and bright blue shirt with a chunky green necklace, but she was clearly far from awake. She blinked blearily at the spatula that Betty brandished in her direction

"Sit," Betty ordered. "You need to eat. I won’t have any of this waste away into nothingness because you’re stressed."

"I’ll just grab a yogurt on the way to work," Clarise said. "Honest Betty, I’m fine."

Betty glared. "Sit!"

Clarise sat.

Betty’s mother patted her on the shoulder. Her parents were both still in their robes, and sitting at the table with huge mugs of coffee in their hands. "Don’t worry Clarise," Mary said, "she’ll let you go once you’ve eaten. Coffee?"

Clarise nodded, sleepily, and Mary got up to fix her a cup.

Today, Betty had decided to add a new twist to her favorite breakfast food. She desperately wanted the crunchy texture that came with toast. Having eggs with no crunchy side was just a depressing thought, which defeated the entire purpose of comfort food. So, Betty decided to add a trick from a diabetes site she’d seen. Sliced granny smith apples on top of a cheese omelet.

She sat the plates in front of Clarise and her parents. She made toast for them to go with the apple cheese omelets. She couldn’t eat toast, but they shouldn’t have to deprive themselves.

The look on her father’s face when he bit into her latest creation was nothing short of bliss. He closed his eyes. "Mmm."

Betty grinned. The yummy sound meant that it was a hit. She gave herself a mental high five. Then she bit into her own omelet.

Hallelujah diabetes! Why hadn’t she ever found this recipe before?

After breakfast, Clarise left for work and Betty was faced with the reality of having to go to her own desk and try and get something done to continue her cash flow. She delayed by checking and recording her blood sugar.

Hey, she thought. If she had a medical reason to procrastinate, why shouldn’t she use it?

Eventually though, her computer had loaded. The internet was connected. She’d read all the news on her homepage, and played three games of Spider Solitaire. There was only so much procrastination she could justify.

Betty opened her e mail. There were thirty e mails from yesterday and this morning alone. She groaned and let her forehead fall to hit the desk before steeling herself to wade though them. She marked the spam and hit delete with a feeling of justice being served. Only twenty two e mails left! Most were notifications of items for sale in her area.

That by itself wasn’t anything unusual. She signed up for e mail notifications all the time on the off chance she might find an item worth buying. What was unusual was almost all the sales were old pieces of theater equipment. And, though user names for the seller were different for each item, every item came from the same IP address.

The IP address was Clarise’s computer at the Lofton Theater.

CHAPTER 30

Well, given how well her information had been received before, Betty decided she had to have a little something more to back up her theories than an IP address. It certainly looked suspicious, but… well… She couldn’t kid herself. She had no justification. She was curious. She was already involved. What was one more snoop? Betty almost couldn’t bear the thought of letting someone follow up on her lead. And besides, if the police were actually hoping to catch whoever the murderer was, and if the murders were connected to the theater equipment sales, then it wouldn’t do for the police to scare the murderer off by sweeping down on the theater again. On the other hand, being around the theater was the perfect job for Betty. She was bait, after all.

Still, there was no sense being stupid about it. She sent Bill an e mail letting him know that she’d be spending the afternoon at the theater. He replied almost immediately, letting her know that she was going to have a policeman tailing her in an unmarked car at all times. And he reminded her to please wear her jacket with the tracker. Yes, even if it didn’t go with her shoes.