Authors: Carol Durand,Summer Prescott
Missy
was busy gently arranging mulch around the newly planted petunias in her front
garden when a shadow loomed over her suddenly, startling her. Pulling out the
buds that had been delivering 80’s pop into her ears, she whirled around to see
Samantha Lemmon standing behind her. Heart beating a mile a minute, Missy
gasped.
“Goodness,
you startled me!” she exclaimed, turning off her iPod, and halfway wondering if
she was going to become the next victim.
“I’m
sorry,” Samantha plopped down on the grass a few feet from where Missy was
working. “I guess you didn’t hear me talking to you because of the music.” She
was wearing denim capris and a v-necked black t-shirt rather than her typical
outfit of scrubs, and Missy realized that this was the first time she’d ever
seen her in normal clothing.
Putting
down her bag of mulch and peeling off her work gloves, Missy tried to act
normal, all the while wondering if she was staring into the eyes of a killer.
When she told Chas about her conversation with Marsha, he had said that the
grieving woman had already told him the same thing herself, and now here Missy
was, face-to-face with a suspected murderer.
“What
brings you to this neck of the woods?” she asked, hoping that she sounded
cheerful.
“I
needed to talk to someone, and you always struck me as someone who was kind and
thoughtful and intelligent enough to make her own decisions,” Samantha said
sadly.
“Well,
thanks – I try,” she attempted to joke, but, considering the circumstances, it
fell flat. “So…what’s up?”
“They
haven’t formally charged me with anything, but, because of the way they’re
questioning and treating me, I think the police believe that I killed Sally,”
Sam said, her eyes wide with pain, whether real or feigned. “I could never have
done that. Sally was never anything but nice to me…I loved her like a sister.”
Missy
didn’t know what to say. “She was a wonderful person,” was the best that she
could come up with.
Sam
studied her carefully for a moment. “Well, it looks like they have you
convinced too,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “All of my friends
have turned against me,” she cried. “I was at work all day on the day that they
found poor Sally. How could they think that I had time to kill someone when I
was working all day? It’s just crazy,” she shook her head, despairing.
“Sam,
I…” Missy began, reaching a hand toward her.
Sam
shook her head. “No, never mind. Forget it. I thought that you might be able to
see past the accusations and actually be my friend, but I guess that’s just too
much to hope for. You’re just like all the others,” she accused, standing and
swiping the blades of grass from the seat of her capris. “Don’t worry, I won’t
bother you anymore,” she called over her shoulder as she ran from the yard,
tears streaming down her face.
Missy
frowned as she watched her go. The evidence that had been discovered to date,
pointed in Sam’s direction, but it still seemed inconceivable that a person who
appeared to be so incredibly good and harmless could have committed such an
act. She felt scared that she might have just angered someone who was capable
of killing, while feeling sorry for someone who might have been wrongly
accused, and she had no idea which feelings to trust.
**
“The
safe thing to do at this point, is trust your fear,” Chas advised Missy when
she told him of her encounter with Samantha. “She obviously knows where you
live, but I’m sure she also knows that the police department is watching her
every move, so you should be safe, but take extra precautions. Lock your doors
and windows, even if you feel that LaChance is the safest place on the planet,
avoid being alone after dark – I’ll be happy to help you with that one if you’d
like,” he teased, “…and try not to make her angry if you happen to encounter
her again. If what Marsha says is true, she apparently has a hair-trigger
temper that can end up being lethal. Keep your cell phone on you at all times, and
don’t be afraid to call me or the station if something is scaring you, okay?”
Missy
nodded. “It all seems so surreal. Last week we were all just a happy group of
women, drinking wine and talking about books, and now, one of us may be a
murderer, and one or more of us may be in danger, it’s just so crazy.”
“It
is very strange,” Chas agreed. “I’ve been looking into Sam Lemmon’s past and
the woman is squeaky clean – graduated with highest honors, has been an
exemplary employee at every job, no nasty divorces or break-ups that I can
find, no criminal record of any kind, not even so much as a parking ticket. I
really wonder what’s going on here,” he admitted.
“Aren’t
the most heinous criminals often the ones that seem the most nice and normal?”
Missy asked in a small voice.
“Absolutely,”
he agreed grimly. “So it will behoove us to be on our toes until the case is
solved,” he warned her, then took her in his arms.
The
Burgundies and Books ladies showed up at
Crème de la Cupcake
on the
Tuesday after the murder, somber and quiet. They took seats at their normal
table, leaving the chair where Sally used to sit unoccupied. Missing from the
group was Samantha, and during the course of their conversation about how awful
it was not having Sally with them, no one even mentioned Sam’s name. Missy
served fresh, hot coffee and the Cupcake of the Day, the Fluffernutter, a
peanut butter cupcake, filled with molten chocolate and capped with marshmallow
crème, then sat with the gals, who all seemed, understandably, to be in a state
of shock.
“Who’s
going to host book club on Thursdays now?” Tamela asked, wiping crumbs of
peanut butter cupcake from her fingers with a napkin. “I mean, I think that
Sally would definitely want us to go on meeting and enjoying each other, don’t
y’all think so?”
Marsha
nodded. “She absolutely would. This club was important to Sally, we can best
honor her memory by keeping it going. She and I started Burgundies and Books
years ago, so I think that it should naturally fall to me to host the meetings,”
she said, more solemn than any of them had ever seen the typically boisterous
and irreverent redhead.
“Are
we all going to fit in your tiny little place?” Tara, the stay-at-home-mom and
member of the country club set, who had missed the last meeting, asked.
Marsha
frosted her with a look. “Just because I don’t have five bathrooms and a
swimming pool doesn’t mean that my house is too small for a handful of women to
sit around and drink wine in,” she snapped.
“I
didn’t mean…” Tara began.
“I
know you didn’t,” Marsha interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “Our nerves
are all just a little bit raw right now,” she sighed.
The
bell above the door signaled that someone was coming in, and, as one, the
ladies looked up to see Samantha heading hesitantly toward their table.
“Sorry
I’m late,” she said softly, warily. She slowly pulled out her normal chair and
eased into it, with no one saying a word. Marsha angrily reached into her
purse, grabbed her keys and stormed out of the shop, leaving the rest of the
club sitting there uncomfortably, not looking at each other. One by one, they
stood up and left quietly, some of them thanking Missy for the coffee and
cupcakes on their way out, until only Missy sat with Sam, who now had tears
rolling freely down her cheeks.
“I
guess I’m no longer welcome at book club,” she observed, staring down at the
table and wiping her eyes.
“There
are just so many…unanswered questions,” Missy offered, trying not to upset her
further.
“And
not one of those women is giving me the benefit of the doubt,” she muttered
bitterly.
Missy
took a good hard look at the miserable creature slumped in the chair across
from her. Samantha’s eyes had dark circles under them, and her face was tired
and drawn. She looked as though she had lost weight, and her hair was a mess,
as though she hadn’t showered or brushed it in days. The clothing that she wore
was the same outfit that she’d had on when she sat on Missy’s lawn crying, and
her fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. Despite what she might have
done, Missy’s heart hurt for her.
“When’s
the last time that you had something to eat, Sam?” she asked, trying to get the
young woman to look at her. When at last she did look up, there was a haunted
quality to her gaze, as though she was enduring an inner struggle that was
eating away at her soul, piece by piece.
“I
can’t remember,” she replied weakly, shrugging her shoulders a bit. “I can’t
sleep, I don’t have an appetite, and it’s difficult to even put a coherent
thought together,” she admitted. “My entire life has been turned upside down
since Sally died.”
“Well,
you need to keep up your strength,” Missy said firmly. “You wait right here,
I’ll be back in a minute.” She returned moments later with a plate that
presented a Morning Glory muffin that was rich in nutrients and heavy in fiber,
along with a cup of strong coffee, a glass of ice water, and a warm, damp cloth,
all on a serving tray. Setting the tray down, Missy handed the wash cloth to a
stunned Samantha, urging her to wash her face and hands. The surprised young
woman complied, and Missy saw the surge of relief that the simple act brought
to her. Taking the cloth, she pushed the tray toward Sam and let her know that
it was her responsibility to eat and drink everything on it. Tears of gratitude
shone in Samantha’s eyes as she tore a small chunk from the muffin and placed
it in her mouth.
Missy
sat with her, saying nothing, simply observing, her heart aching. She couldn’t
imagine what would possibly compel one human being to kill another, and made no
excuses for that evil behavior, but she hated seeing anyone suffer, and
clearly, Samantha Lemmon was suffering. She also was self-protective enough to
figure that, if Sam was indeed a killer, being nice to her was probably the
smartest thing that she could do to stay safe. Once she had drained her ice
water and finished the coffee and muffin, Missy asked if she’d like anything
else. Sam shook her head and when she reached into her purse for her wallet,
Missy stopped her.
“This
one’s on me, honey, you look much better now, that’s all the payment I need.”
Sam
nodded, tears filling her eyes, and murmured a soft ‘thank you.’
Missy
put the empty dishes back on the tray and took it to the kitchen. When she
returned, Sam had gone, leaving a five dollar bill and a note on a napkin that
simply said, ‘thank you.’ Missy put the five in the tip jar on the front
counter, and put the napkin in her pocket, deep in thought.
Chas
Beckett hated stakeouts. He hated being trapped in his car for hours at a time,
eating take-out food, and fighting his heavy eyelids with strong coffee, but
unfortunately it was an occupational hazard that had to be endured
occasionally. Tonight he was parked a block away from Pierre Chartreaux’s dumpy
brown ranch home, waiting to see if any of the suspected drug traffickers with
whom he associated showed up. He’d been working the case for weeks, not telling
Missy about it because he didn’t want her to worry. The criminals that he was
now tracking were the sort who would cut off a man’s eyelids without a second
thought, and if that man happened to be a cop, the torture would be prolonged
and profound.
Tips
from anonymous sources had indicated that Chartreaux was about to set a plan in
motion that would send drugs flooding into Louisiana, and dirty money flooding
into his pocket. Chas was observing his activities to try to pinpoint who the
major players in the scheme were, so that when local departments, along with
the DEA and other government agencies made the busts, no man from Chartreaux’s
crowd would escape.
There
were no signs of life at the little house with peeling paint and drooping
gutters, so Chas took a moment to wrap up a half sandwich that was sitting on
the passenger seat, sticking it in his mini-cooler for later. The hours old
coffee that he sipped from a foam to-go cup was cold, acrid and bitter, and he
grimaced, forcing it down and thinking longingly of the French press coffee
maker waiting patiently next to his bean grinder on the counter at home.
The
detective no longer had to do detective work to make a living. He had left his
wealthy family right after college to pursue a career in law enforcement,
wanting to do something of significance in the world, and had steadfastly
refused any financial assistance from home. His father had died last year
however, leaving him billions, which he drew upon frequently for philanthropic
endeavors. Despite his riches, Chas Beckett still wanted to make a difference
in the world by serving in law enforcement, hence his commitment to his job,
even when it included awful and uncomfortable stakeouts.
Setting
his cooler back down on the floor, and carefully placing his flimsy coffee cup
in the drink holder, he raised his head and suddenly felt cold steel pressing
behind his ear. Hearing the distinctive click of a gun being cocked, Chas
didn’t move, and heard a sinister chuckle come from the gun’s owner.
“Well,
good evenin,’ detective,” Pierre Chartreaux drawled, his Cajun accent profound.
“Let’s see dos hands of yours,” he pressed the gun more firmly into Chas’s
scalp.
The
detective slowly raised his hands, calculating his next move.
“Don’t
go thinking ‘bout no funny bizness, ya hear? I’d just as soon shoot ya, so if
y’all give me a reason, I’m gonna do it, see?” Chartreaux threatened. “Good,”
he snickered as Chas held his hands in the air, trying to assess his options by
using his peripheral vision to look in the sideview mirror. “Now, I’m ‘bout to
open dis door, and when I do, you gonna keep dem hands up and come out real
slow,” he ordered calmly. He stepped back, swung the door open, and placed
himself between Chas and the door. The detective stepped slowly from the car
and stood with his back to Chartreaux, the gun still firmly lodged behind his
ear. “Now turn aroun,’ nice an slow,” Pierre demanded.
Chas
slowly turned to face the drug lord, and when he did, he looked over the
gunman’s left shoulder, his eyes wide with surprise, as though there was
something shocking behind Pierre. Turning reflexively to look, Chartreaux gave
Beckett just the opening that he needed, and he ducked out from under the gun,
lunging forward to tackle the surprised Cajun, taking him to the ground. As the
two men wrestled for control of the weapon, it discharged, striking the
detective, who flinched in the face of the impact, losing feeling in his left
arm, but kept fighting.
Chas
knew that his very life depended upon his actions in the next few moments, and
with every last bit of strength, he flipped Pierre onto his back, landing on
top of him, and punched his attacker in the throat. Chartreaux dropped the gun,
his hands going to his throat, and Chas pushed it out of reach, gaining control
of the drug lord, despite the fact that blood from his wound had saturated the
sleeve of his light jacket. Rolling the shorter but stockier man onto his
belly, Chas fumbled for his handcuffs and snapped them onto first one of
Pierre’s wrists, then the other. He immediately called for backup, beginning to
feel faint from blood loss. Chartreaux was breathing heavily, so Chas’s blow
hadn’t crushed his windpipe, but the struggle had definitely taken its toll on
the gangster. Just to be safe, in case he happened to pass out before backup
arrived, the detective zip tied Pierre’s feet together, and retrieved the gun,
placing it in the car, hoping against hope that none of the criminal’s
associates showed up anytime soon.
Chas
heard the sound of a car speeding toward him, blinded by the glare of the
headlights. He knew that either he was about to die at the hands of the drug
traffickers that he’d been tailing for weeks, or that help had finally arrived.
The entire sleeve and front of his jacket were soaked with blood, and he felt a
dull throbbing in his chest on his left side. The headlights came to a
screeching halt a few feet away from the detective and the bound criminal, just
as Chas’s vision started to dim. He heard shouting voices which sounded as
though they were terribly far away, and slipped into oblivion.