Libel to Kill Read online

  But could I get Bernie to believe there was a real threat? I needed to understand the intricacies of libel if I planned to use it as a scare tactic. Since I'd grown bored of the client's manuscript, no matter how much he was paying us, I texted my friend and lawyer, Gabby Langdon. Within a few minutes, she suggested we meet at Tea & Sympathy for lunch. Without wasting another minute, I saved the changes I'd made to the document and shot it to Geena, my virtual assistant. I typed a quick note outlining which freelance editor to assign the project and shut down my computer. It's good to be the boss.

  ✽✽✽

  Since her office was only a few blocks from Tea & Sympathy, Gabby arrived first. She waved from a table near the large windows in the front of the building, two glasses of iced tea were already on the table in front of her.

  I'd barely landed my butt in the chair when Gabby said, "What's up, Buttercup?" with a self-satisfied smile.

  "What's gotten you in such a good mood?" I asked.

  "I have you to blame for my great mood." Her smile turning into a full-blown grin. "I've been bitten by the writing bug. It's crazy because I hated writing when I was in law school. Of course, that wasn't the least bit creative, but it was still writing. I was so surprised when I started putting my story idea on paper. Now I find myself excitedly waking up early so I can write before work."

  "That's great. And you're so right. Writing in college is nothing like creative writing." If it were, I'd be killing it. "It makes me happy you find it fulfilling."

  "I go throughout my normal day with this whole other world swarming around in my head. I'll be discussing a legal matter with a client when all of a sudden, a plot twist pops into my head. Or a new conflict my protagonist will be forced to deal with. I have to jot it down before I forget it, so I write it on the client's notes. It's intoxicating." Gabby giggled and took a long drink of tea.

  She did have it bad. Why wasn't I getting brilliant plot ideas while I worked? Why wasn't I feeling giddy when I wrote? Before I could consider further, Aimee came to get our lunch orders.

  Once she was gone, Gabby asked, "So, were you wanting to get out of the office or is there something you needed? Or both?"

  "Both. I wanted to ask you about the laws surrounding libel. You know, like how hard it is to prove, how someone might go about suing someone for libel. Like that."

  "Are you hoping to get away with committing libel?" Gabby picked up her fork and tapped the tines on the table as if she couldn't contain her new-found enthusiasm.

  This was not my friend Gabrielle at all. Some crazy writing spirit had taken over her body. Gabby doesn't joke about legal matters. She has a sense of humor, of course, but not one that was out on display often. Her lightheartedness was a bit unsettling.

  "Noooo." I drew out the word. "I'm wondering if I can use it to shock Bernie out of modeling her characters after real people. I've set up a meeting with her for tomorrow to lay down the law, so to speak. Someone is going to fly off the handle with her if I don't put a stop to it this time. That stuff about Reverend Holt? He's her pastor, for crying out loud. What might she write about someone she doesn’t like?”

  Gabby's smile had slid from her face, replaced by her usual thoughtful expression. "Yes, that's a concern. I don't know if what she's writing is true or not, but I wouldn't want to be recognized as one of her characters." She winced.

  "You said it, sister." We simultaneously sipped our tea. I shuddered a little as that idea sunk in. Who knew when Bernie might decide to write me into her book?

  Setting down her glass, Gabby went on, "The legal definition of libel is publishing content that falsely defames a person or in any way causes damage, for example, to their reputation or income. So, if one of Bernie’s characters could prove what she'd published was untrue and had caused damage to their reputation, and thereby to their ability to earn a living, the court could rule in their favor."

  "How difficult is it to prove? Does it matter that Bernie has changed their names in the manuscript?"

  Gabby leaned back in her chair, looking every bit the sober lawyer. "Libel is typically difficult to prove. And changing the name doesn't exclude the situation being considered libelous. However, the book would have to be published before it could be brought to court. How likely do you think it is Bernie would publish her book?"

  I stopped chewing on my thumbnail. "Fairly likely, I think. You know her. She seems to feel obligated to convert everyone she meets to her way of thinking, especially when it comes to religion. She may believe it's her Christian duty to publish her work. To warn people of the danger to their eternal souls if they don't get their butts in the pews each Sunday morning."

  Gabby chuckled without mirth. "Yeah, I can see that."

  "Besides, I've already discussed the basics of self-publishing at a WAC meeting. As we all got closer to finishing our manuscript revisions, I'd planned on talking more about it, and even encouraging members to go for it. I think when Bernie hears the details of how she could make her book a reality, she'll publish it."

  "I'd have to agree with that assessment." Gabby sat up on the edge of her chair.

  "Do you think anyone in Aspen Falls would sue her?" I said. "After all, just because you self-publish a book doesn't mean it's going to sell any copies. More than that, can you imagine anyone having the chutzpah to go up against Bernie? It's one thing to complain behind her back, but quite another to face her with a grievance. And to do that in a court of law? I'm not so sure."

  "Don't get too hung up on the details. Your goal is providing Bernie with just enough information to stop her. You don't have to give her the whole truth to do that. Just make her aware of the thin line she's walking. Show her it's in her best interest not to antagonize townspeople."

  We stopped talking as Aimee delivered our sandwiches and refilled our tea glasses. As soon as she was out of earshot, I asked, "What would someone be up against if they wanted to sue Bernie?"

  "Libel is always tough to prove, and cases are notorious for dragging on through the courts for years. Honestly, I don't see anyone in town taking the trouble once they found out how challenging it would be. Besides which, if someone did take it to court, it would backfire. Even if what she's written wasn't true, the defense would bring up all kinds of 'evidence' to show why Bernie had characterized them the way she did. All their infidelities would come out anyway. For example, Bernie made reference to Reverend Holt's gambling. Any raffle ticket purchased, any frivolous trip to Las Vegas, any random online betting account could be brought up in court." Gabby shrugged her shoulders. "It would be much better for the person to talk to Bernie directly and keep the courts out of it."

  "You're right. I wouldn't go through all that for a book that very few people would probably read."

  "Not to mention the cost. I'm not sure any of the members are in a place where they could come up with that type of cash. Heck, even celebrities often ignore libelous reports. It's just not worth the emotional investment, even if you have the funds."

  "But they'd have a case, right? I need to present the facts, things she may very well research after I bring the subject up."

  "Absolutely, they'd have a case. If she published the book."

  The conversation reverted naturally to the pros and cons of self-publishing and then moved on to the direction Gabby was taking her novel. Reluctantly, we settled our bills and headed back to our separate places of work. Satisfied by the ammunition I'd gathered, I was hopeful that I'd be able to put a stop to Bernie’s shenanigans.

  ✽✽✽

  My confidence faded as my impending meeting with Bernie grew closer. Though I loathed the thought of having her menacing presence in my house, I'd decided that being on my home turf would make me more self-assured. I'd ruled out meeting at Tea & Sympathy or any other public place early on. There was no need to give Bernie more psychological ammunition by providing her with an audience.

  Since early that morning, I'd tried to concentrate on work with only a modicum of succe
ss. As the sun moved higher in the blue summer sky, I had even more trouble focusing on my computer screen. To calm my nerves and lower my blood pressure, I grabbed my kitty, Tuppence, from her basket in the sunshine and rested her on my lap. Amid strokes to her silky fur and ego, she seemed content to be my sounding board for the mission.

  "I just need to channel my inner professor and deal with Bernie like I would have an unruly student. If I don't rein her in, she's bound to frighten writers away from WAC."

  Turning her sweet face to look up at me, Tuppence chirped and squeezed her eyes. From this, I took it that she concurred.

  "I'm going to give her an ultimatum. Either she ceases creating characters based on sinners in our community, or she'll be asked to leave the group."

  My furry confidant squeaked, spurring me on.

  "No, even though I dread it, it must be done. I'll simply remind her that we must all follow the conventions of the craft and of a civilized society." I groaned at the thought of taking on the most formidable woman I knew.

  Believing her job was done, Tuppence stood, stretched, and yawned before hopping off my lap, no doubt to go in search of sustenance. As if she needed any.

  ✽✽✽

  When the time of our meeting had come and gone, and I'd not heard a word from Bernie, I was miffed, to say the least. The tea in the pot had gone cold, and after getting fed up with waiting, I'd dumped it and settled on a mug of coffee instead.

  Darn her! Was Bernie's social calendar so full that she couldn't remember our parley? She wasn't one to miss appointments. In fact, she was nearly always irritatingly early to everything.

  Pushing down my annoyance, I reminded myself that anyone could get held up or forget about an obligation. Even Bernie. My emotional response was no doubt caused by the fact that I'd dreaded the conversation to the nth degree. And then, once I'd worked up my courage and was ready to face her, she'd neglected to show up.

  Blowing out a breath that sent my bangs flying into the air, I made a decision. Bernie wasn't going to take up any more of my brain space today. To that end, I went out and walked the labyrinth to calm down.

  As always, the deliberate, focused footsteps deepened my breathing and cleared my mind. I was still frustrated with Bernie, but after twenty minutes of walking meditation, I felt able to handle the situation with grace.

  Keeping my unhurried, steady pace, I went inside to get my purse and then walked to the car and got in. I was going to find out what had been more critical to Bernie than meeting me.

  ✽✽✽

  I mentally formulated my plan on the drive to Bernie's house. Her nondescript, brink ranch-style home came into view. Thanks to one of the neighborhood teens, her lawn and shrubs were perfectly cut and a healthy, bright green.

  Poor kid. She's probably out there with a ruler measuring blades of grass to ensure it was cut evenly.

  I parked behind Bernie's massive Lincoln. Although it was several years older than my Outback, the Lincoln was waxed to showroom-new condition.

  I took a gander in the visor mirror. The peace from my labyrinth walk was still reverberating through me. I looked serene. Smiling at myself, I snapped the mirror shut and popped the visor back into place. Closing my eyes, I took a final deep breath and headed into battle.

  No, not battle, I reminded myself. A low-key, respectful discussion.

  Straightening my shoulders, I rang the doorbell and waited. After a minute, I rang it again. Still nothing. Thinking she might be in the backyard, I walked around the side of the house. More neatly-trimmed grass and trees. No Bernie.

  Maybe she was sick in bed and didn't want to be bothered. I chewed my thumbnail for a minute, thinking. I didn't want to be a nuisance, but it didn't feel right to leave without knowing she was okay. If her car was here, she should be too.

  Tentatively, I opened the screen door and tried the handle on the front door. It turned without any hesitation. Like most of the citizens of the village, Bernie didn't bother locking her doors. I peeked my head through the gap and said, "Hello. Bernie, are you home?" The house smelled like a mixture of pungent disinfectant and sickening-sweet perfume.

  No answer. I'd half expected her to wail at me from her sickbed to get out of her house and leave her alone.

  More concerned now, I raised a foot to step into the immaculate living room. I hesitated when I observed perfectly-aligned vacuum lines in the dark blue shag carpet. There was a small plastic shoe tray inside the entryway with a variety of Bernie’s shoes lined up neatly side by side. Taking Bernie's lead, I removed my sandals.

  I called out again, but all was eerily quiet. Moving through the living room, my apprehension grew, although I could see nothing amiss.

  I crept down the long hallway on the left. Not wanting to frighten her if she was asleep, I spoke in a soft tone, "Bernie. It's me, Jade. Is everything okay? I rang the doorbell but got no answer. I thought I'd better check on you."

  Nada.

  Steeling myself, I looked inside the first door on the left. Her bed was perfectly made, and everything seemed to be in its rightful place. In one corner stood something hidden under a long dark cloth. Curious, but focused on finding Bernie, I turned to leave. I sighed with relief. It was good news that Bernie wasn’t in her sickbed, right?

  But my heart rate kicked up a notch.

  The bathroom door right across from the bedroom was standing open. It was small and completely dark, unoccupied.

  With a few more steps, I arrived at the last doorway. This one was partially closed. "Bernie? Are you in here?" I pushed the door slowly open and stepped into an office. The desktop held a computer monitor and a few scattered papers, along with the typical office paraphernalia. Moving farther into the room, I noted a standard, ugly-green filing cabinet and a whiteboard with notes scrawled in Bernie's handwriting. I couldn't make heads or tails of it.

  I turned, searching for a clue. Where could she be? I leaned over to right a stapler on its side but stopped in my tracks.

  There she was, lying on the worn but clean pink shag carpeting, behind the open door. Her mouth agape, eyes staring at the adjacent wall.

  My hands flew to my mouth. I quickly turned my head. But I couldn't un-see her.

  There was no doubt about it. Bernadette Comer was dead.

  Chapter Three

  I didn't need to check for a pulse. The light had gone out of Bernie's eyes. Bending down, I checked anyway and finding none, shut her eyes. Taking a few steps back, I let myself drop into the desk chair.

  After a couple of deep breaths, I pulled my cell phone out of my pants pocket and called it in. The silence felt heavier now as I looked down at Bernie.

  The memory of her discussing her recent glowing report from the cardiologist ran through my head. Evidently, her specialist had been overenthusiastic about her heart health. It was common knowledge that she'd suffered from arrhythmia and had a pacemaker put in a few years ago. Maybe her diabetes had compounded her heart issues.

  I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, dying all alone like that. Probably in pain and scared. Clutching at her chest, knowing her time had come. True, she hadn’t helped her situation by alienating people, but I hated the thought of anyone dying alone and frightened. There was guilt underneath my sorrow. I'd been livid when she hadn’t shown up. But all the while, she'd been lying here.

  Furrowing my brow, I stood and tiptoed around the body to view it from every angle. There was something odd about the way Bernie was arranged. She was lying on her right side facing the desk, but that wasn't the strange part.

  Almost level with her chest, her palms were pressed together as if in prayer. Her knees were slightly bent, and her stockinged feet were placed one on top of the other. It was as if she’d toppled over while in prayer, and somehow succeeded in maintaining that posture while dying. But was that even possible? The pose was so exact.

  I knelt close to the body and gently picked up her top wrist with my thumb and forefinger. It yielded easily. Her elbow bent w
ith no effort. Rigor mortis had either yet to begin or had been and gone.

  A flicker of pink curtain caught my eye as a breeze wafted through the window, stirring the musty smell of death. She'd been here more than a few hours. When I dropped her arm, it thudded to the floor. "Sorry, Bernie," I said looking down at her corpse. "And sorry I assumed the worst when you stood me up today." With reverence, I replaced her hand as it had been.

  Something shiny caught the sunlight as the breeze picked up the curtain again. Lying near Bernie's hand was a gold-plated lapel pin. I reached down to pick it up but stopped myself. Instead, I stood, grabbed a pencil off the desk, and crouched again. Using the pencil, I flipped the pin over to study it in the sunlight.

  It was in the shape of a shield with a crucifix in the middle. Words written in Latin were engraved along the edges. Had the pin come out of Bernie's fisted hand when I’d dropped her arm to the floor? I'd never noticed her wearing a lapel pin. I shrugged my shoulders. It could have been something she wore only to church or was a recent purchase.

  I pulled myself to standing and looked down at Bernie's form once more. "Rest in peace, Bernie. I hope you found the heaven you were always preaching about.”

  With a deep sigh, I crept out of the room. What was taking them so long? I'd told Sheryl Buccanon, the sheriff dispatcher and all 'round Girl Friday, that Bernie was dead, so there wasn't a rush. But it had been a while, and I was starting to get antsy hanging around with a corpse.

  Walking on autopilot to the kitchen, I bent down to pick up a piece of trash nearly hidden under the hallway closet door. Once again, I caught myself just in time. Best not to touch anything. Noticing I was still holding the pencil, I flipped over the blister pack that had once held over-the-counter medication. The name of the drug was barely discernable on the back. I couldn't imagine Bernie leaving it there if she'd seen it. Everything else in the house was flawless. Though at this angle, I could see the indent of high heels marring the careful vacuum tracks in the carpet. Strange, considering Bernie appeared to be meticulous about removing her shoes in the entryway.