Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou) Read online

  "Always glad to serve our men in blue," Pattie said, unfolding another pink-striped box. "Getting out of a parking ticket?"

  "With my dad on the force, any parking ticket I get will be paid on time, in full and with a great deal of harassment from Lieutenant Judd Kelsey, super cop."

  Pattie laughed. "I thought my old man was bad with all his troubles."

  I knew her dad had been in and out of rehab several times in the last twenty years. My dad had probably been the one to arrest him on some of his many charges.

  "It's still good, though. You know, that you can talk to him. You and your dad have something special."

  "Yeah, well, that's what I'm on my way to do today. That guy I've been seeing from Dallas wants me to spend a weekend with him ... alone."

  A look of acknowledgment came into Pattie's eyes. "Oh, I get it. What do you have to ask your dad for? Last time I checked you were a grown woman – with a child, no less."

  "I'm not asking him for permission," I said. "I'm asking him what he thinks about it."

  "Wow, you and your dad really are cool," Pattie said. "You want my opinion?"

  "Sure." I said.

  "I think you should go for it. You know, you're only young once, and guys like that don't come along every day. He's single, he's handsome, he isn't a drunk or a druggie, he's employed. Sounds perfect to me – better yet, give him my number."

  I laughed. "Go for it, huh? I'm thinking about it. Oh, and about the author's night at the library – you didn't have to do that, but thanks."

  "Yes I did." She shrugged and started closing the glass bakery case where she had just removed the donuts. "They weren't recognizing you for your work. It's as simple as that."

  "Well, then, it was very kind of you to stand up for me."

  "Look, Betsy, you and I are both self-made women. Your husband took a walk, but that never stopped you. I guess I admire that about you. Sometimes you have to make your own happy ending." The bell behind me jingled, and a crowd of ladies dressed in blue scrubs came in.

  "You're getting busy, and I completely forgot my second reason for being here." I opened the cookbook, which was now permanently glued by icing to the crocodile page. "I can't get him to stick together. How do I fix it?"

  "Um," she said, looking at the picture of the cake, "use icing between each piece to use as a glue, and don't overcook the cakes. If they get all crumbly he'll start to look like he's shedding. Keep it moist, not dry."

  "Thanks again, I'll try that." I backed up as the women in blue approached the counter, their eyes focused on their next high-calorie snack. Pattie brushed some flour off of her apron and greeted them. As she started filling their orders she looked over at me and winked. I guess she was making her own happy ending, too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I stopped over at the Pecan Bayou police station with my box of iced donuts for my dad and George Beckman, the other working officer on our little police force. Dad was tapping away on his computer, while George was putting on his jacket getting ready to go out on patrol. The day dispatcher, Mrs. Thatcher, who still sported a beehive hairdo a la 1963, was filing papers while the squawk of the radio went on behind her. She adjusted her plastic eyeglass frames and focused on the black screen.

  "Donuts from PattieCake's!" I announced.

  It was like bringing out a cheesecake at the diet center. They all turned toward my pink-striped box, grins lighting up their little law enforcement faces.

  "This is mighty nice of you darlin'," my dad said as he picked out a shiny chocolate donut. My dad was the highest-ranking officer on the police force except for the chief of police, Arvin Wilson. Dad handled patrols, court appearances, traffic violations, drugs, domestic disturbances and an occasional murder. The one case he had never solved was the disappearance of my own husband, Barry. He told me he felt he had let me and Zach down. When I discovered the murdered body of my husband's ex-partner last Halloween, I had the opportunity to learn what he was like when he was on a case. He could be grumpy and demanding, but he was smart and sought the truth no matter what.

  When I was twelve years old, I decided to try smoking out behind the garage. My dad knew what I had been doing immediately even though I sprayed room freshener everywhere except down my own throat.

  "Betsy," he had said. "You haven't been smokin' now, have you?"

  "Of course not," I'd answered, wondering if I was blasting him with smoker's breath. I tried to sound wounded that he would ever suspect me of doing such a terrible thing.

  "Good to know. By the way, there are some ashes on your shirt."

  I brushed off my breast pocket as if there were a swarm of cockroaches on it.

  "Gotcha."

  My dad reached in for a second donut, barely avoiding George Beckman's big square hand. "You can only take two in the squad car, George," said Mrs. Thatcher. "I don't want to be cleaning up sticky stuff off the equipment again."

  George was a large man at over six-foot-three, and he had a cap of blonde hair that was thinning on the top. He wore the Pecan Bayou Police uniform of navy blue, and just the appearance of him in any crowd situation could quiet down some pretty rowdy folks. That is, until he opened his mouth and began speaking. For some reason, George was blessed with a high voice that sometimes made me think of him as a mix between Mickey Mouse and SpongeBob. His lovely voice could be heard in the Episcopal church choir every Sunday morning as he sang in beautiful Irish tenor tones. He squeaked out a resigned "Yes ma'am."

  My dad and I walked over to his office. "Can we talk?" I walked in behind him and shut his office door.

  "Uh oh, this is never good," he said as he sat in his soft black leather office chair, still balancing the donut between his fingers.

  "Fitzpatrick called me yesterday."

  "He's done that before, right?"

  "Yes, but he has invited me to come to Dallas for the weekend."

  "And you've done that before, right?"

  "Yes I have, but this time he wants to see me without the boys being around."

  He nodded in recognition. "Did you want me to take Zach for the weekend?"

  I breathed in deeply and let out a sigh. "I don't know, Dad. I wish I did."

  He popped the remainder of the donut in his mouth. "I see. Let me ask you – do you want to go to Dallas?"

  "Yes," I answered, blushing. "And no. You know, Dad, this is the first ... time since Barry I've even considered ..."

  "I get it, you don't need to go any further with that," he stopped me. "This is something you need to think about, Betsy, but whatever you decide, it's going to be okay."

  "I know. Fitzpatrick is a nice guy and all, I'm just not sure I'm ready."

  "Would you like to know what I would do if it were me?"

  I nodded.

  "Go to Dallas. For the last eight years I've watched you work hard, raise my grandson, and even though Barry did what he did, you kept on goin'. I think you deserve to have a little fun in your life. Now mind you, I wouldn't be saying this if I hadn't already done an extensive background check on him."

  "Really? You did?"

  "You bet your sweet ..." He stopped himself. "Yes I did," he admitted. His face took on a gentle expression I had seen countless times in my life, and it never failed to calm me. He was right – it was time.

  That evening, after I put Zach to bed, I picked up the phone and punched in Fitzpatrick's number. I could feel my heart beating through my rib cage and a slight queasiness in my stomach. Why was I acting like this? I was just going to Dallas for a weekend. I certainly had been to Dallas before, right?

  The phone rang on the other end. My divorce from Barry had been finalized a year ago, and I was certainly a free woman. My time with Barry had been painful, with his daily criticism of my appearance and just about everything else. I could never be the woman he wanted, and now that I was on this side of it, I wondered why he ever married me. When he disappeared, we all immediately assumed it was some sort of foul play. When I found the box f
ull of bills in the top of his closet, the idea of murder came back to me, but not in the way it had before. It took me years to clean up his financial mess, and I still had to have my dad sign on my house loan in order to get it.

  The phone continued to ring. Maybe he wasn't home. It was almost 8:30. Surely he was home.

  As I listened to each ring I wondered how many local writers could they really get at the Pecan Bayou Library. Maybe they were paying for writers to come from Houston or Dallas? I thought about my helpful hints book with its quaint blue gingham cover. It was so homey and cute that it might get laughed at next to some artist's rendition of a murder scene or a bodice-ripper cover. If nothing else, this experience would probably prove to be humbling. The phone rang again. That was it – they weren't home, and I was out of my anxiety-producing commitment.

  "Hello?" A sultry female voice answered.

  "Oh, hi. Um, I might have the wrong number. I'm looking for Leo Fitzpatrick?"

  "Yes," she answered, making her Y sound like a J. "He is in the shower right now. He will call you back another time." I heard a click on the other end. I felt a hard lump rising in my throat. Had I been wrong about Fitzpatrick? Was he really just playing me the same way Barry had?

  *****

  On Friday, after emailing my column to Rocky at the newspaper, I made my final attempt at the crocodile cake. I had to make it work this time. After baking the cake and making sure it was moist enough, I carefully applied some chocolate icing between each connecting layer and gently pushed them together. When I did my final icing, making the cake turn into the green slimy body of a crocodile, I stood back to see if the cracks would form. They did not. I jumped around the kitchen in a little impromptu dance and about fell on the floor when the phone rang.

  I looked at the caller ID. It was Fitzpatrick. I was surprised he had enough energy to call after his wild night of abandon with Miss Jes, Jes, Jes. Well, today I was going to be Miss No, No, No. I would tell him where he could stick that weekend in Dallas. I reached for the phone and prepared to push the "on" button, but that feeling of anxiety returned and my stomach knotted up. I felt so nervous my hand froze. I rationalized. He could wait a bit. He could sit and wonder what was going on. Sure, he could wait a bit.

  Sometimes I wondered why I even tried. It was certainly safer and a lot less nerve-wracking with just me and Zach. I had people I loved and who loved me. What more could I want? Then I thought about Fitzpatrick and the feeling of his touch on my skin. What else could I want? The phone stopped ringing. Dodged that bullet.

  The phone rang again. I couldn't stand it. I jerked it up and punched the talk button. "Who was that woman?" was the first thing that shot out of my mouth, even before the standard greeting of "Hello."

  There was a silence on the other end, and then I heard my aunt's voice crackling into the line.

  "Betsy? Are you alright?"

  I leaned my head against my hand. "Oh, Aunt Maggie. I'm fine. I ... thought you were someone else."

  "Obviously. You want to tell me what that was about?"

  I pulled out a chair and stared at my green snake-like creation. "Not really, but now that you've happened into the middle of it, I guess I have to."

  "Yes, you do."

  "I thought you were Fitzpatrick. I called his house Monday night and a woman answered."

  "Oh."

  "Yes, and when I asked for Leo she told me he was in the shower.

  Her voice rose. "Oh."

  "And I was going to tell him that I had decided to spend the weekend with him ... without the boys."

  Her voice rose again. "Oh! My, my, Betsy."

  Then we were both quiet. "You want me to come over?"

  I really did, but I knew it wasn't a reasonable request this time of day. "No, you can't leave Danny. I'm okay. "

  "No, you're not. I still think there must be an explanation for all of this. There were times when I was hoppin' mad at your Uncle Jeeter only to find out there was a perfectly rational explanation for whatever reason he was driving me crazy."

  My Uncle Jeeter had been gone almost four years ago now. He and Aunt Maggie had been married for nearly thirty years when he died. The doctor had told them when they gave birth to Danny, "Having a child with a disability will either make or break you. How's your marriage doing?"

  Luckily their marriage was just fine. They also found that dealing with the many issues that came up having a son with Down Syndrome were much easier if they worked together. I looked to their marriage and hoped that my own would be just like it. My marriage was the exact opposite. I wasn't lucky enough to get a Jeeter.

  "Just promise me you'll give him a chance to explain," she said.

  "Why do I even need an explanation? I mean, it's not like we're married or anything. He's a free agent."

  "Stop," my aunt interrupted. "Can you hear yourself? Just because of Barry do you no longer think you have any rights in a relationship?"

  "That's not what I meant."

  "That's sure how it sounded to me."

  "Okay. I'll try to call again, and when I get him I'll ask him who the señorita answering the phone at 8:30 at night is."

  "His answer might surprise you."

  It sure might, I thought, and it might not be the surprise I was hoping for. I would have believed just about anything, but he was in the shower. If this was the neighbor lady over delivering her latest batch of cookies, the last thing he would do would be to take a shower, right? It wasn't looking good for Mr. Fitzpatrick.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Early on Saturday, I sat behind a folding table in the Pecan Bayou Mall with a banner behind me next to a second empty chair at a matching table to be filled by Vanessa Markham. Her table was identical to mine except for the fact that Vanessa had thought to bring a dark green tablecloth and decorate it with a coordinating grass-skirt garland. I sat behind a naked, melamine-topped, fake walnut table with no tablecloth and no coordinating garland. We were situated in front of some potted palms down the way from some of the other tables on the mall walkway.

  I had surrounded my crocodile cake with some bright green recycled plastic grass from Zach's Easter basket to look like the raffia that had showcased the cake in the book. I had added a little blue cellophane wrap to serve as water, making him look like he was in a very shiny swamp. I placed my books on the corner of my table, covering up a nick in the fake walnut.

  Vanessa also had a stack of books on the corner of her table. Her chick-lit book was titled Girl Meets Fifth Avenue. I was still trying to understand what distinguished "chick literature" from other types. It seemed to be books written for women by women. These books were funny, hip and usually dealt with women's issues like dating, marriage and all those things that make women eat an entire tub of popcorn at chick flicks. Vanessa's book was displayed in kind of a house-of-cards stack on her table. The cover was illustrated with an adorable cartoon portrait of a woman with a shopping bag. I had already seen her sell two books. If she hadn't been so very proud of herself, I would have bought her book myself. The clientele we wrote for were so different from each other. She attracted young twenty-something women who looked like they had just stepped off a display for fine ladies clothing. I garnered grandmothers and young mothers who looked like they were dressed for a long bus trip, with their purses slung across their shoulders and flat shoes, shuffling through the mall.

  Vanessa returned to her table with a familiar pink-striped box of cupcakes. "Not for me, of course. My husband loves these things. A girl has to watch her figure." She gestured along her gym-tight body. Today she had on a navy blue form-fitting zip-up sweater with a white blouse underneath and black skinny jeans. On her feet were three-inch heels in black patent leather.