Libel to Kill Page 3

  In the kitchen, I tossed the pencil on the table and glanced at the wall clock with a sigh. “Come on, you guys,” I said aloud to no one. Leaning over the sink, I tapped my fingernails on the windowsill as I appreciated Bernie’s carefully-manicured lawn. The very same one I’d been so uncharitable about just a little while earlier. My conscious pricked at the thought of all the times I’d complained about Bernie behind her back.

  In the drainer beside the sink, Bernie had neatly stacked a couple of plates, a glass, silverware, and a teapot. In the shiny scoured sink were two mugs. She must have had a visitor after she'd last done her dishes. That was a small mercy at least. She'd had a human connection before she'd shed her mortal coil. My fingers itched to wash and place them where they belonged, next to the other clean dishes. To get myself away from the temptation, I traipsed into the living room.

  Getting more jittery by the minute, I paced the length of the room as I swung my arms. At last, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I scurried to open the front door. Ross Lawson, our local sheriff, had come to do the honors. Bernie would have expected nothing less. Beside him was Doug, the most ineffectual deputy. Ever.

  No matter. There was unlikely to be anything he could screw up. An old woman had died. End of story. A tingle went up the back of my neck. I rubbed it away and opened the door wider.

  Ross and I had grown up together, along with my husband Christian. The three of us had always been close friends, though I may have pushed it a little lately when I'd solved several murders before Ross could. He called it butting in. I called it using my innate talents for the good of my community. Either way, I was on thin ice. He'd probably groaned aloud when he'd heard I'd been the one to call in the death to the station.

  Ross, ever the gentleman, removed his Stetson and wiped his feet on the welcome mat, before stepping into Bernie's living room.

  I put my hands on my hips. "What took you guys so long?"

  Ross looked at me sharply, his face haggard and his shoulders sagging. "We do have other things to attend to, you know."

  "Sorry. She's in here." After leading Ross and Doug into the office, I stood back and let them do their thing.

  Ross moved towards the body. "How'd you come to find her?"

  "I came to talk to her about some WAC business."

  Ross turned his head and looked at me questioningly.

  "The writers' group I started."

  He nodded.

  “When I rang the bell but got no answer, I went around back and then tried again. It was odd that her car was in the drive, but she wasn't answering. I finally tried the door and came on in. I was worried, and it looks as though I was right to be."

  "Hm," was all he said. Having gestured to Doug to snap a few pictures before he moved the body, he browsed the desk, as I had.

  I rattled on, "I came over because Bernie didn't show up for our meeting. I was worried because she's never late to an appointment." That wasn't the whole truth of it, but Ross didn't need to know everything.

  He peered up at me and nodded. Usually stoic, he was even more so at a death scene. I tried not to take it personally. This wasn't about me, after all. Besides which, he looked pooped.

  "Why don't you go have a seat in the living room?” Although stated as a question, it wasn't a request. “I'll be in soon to take a statement."

  No longer in charge, exhaustion overcame me. I dragged myself into the living room and sat on the edge of the rock-hard couch. Resting my forearms on my knees, I wondered vaguely why anyone would buy such an uncomfortable sofa.

  Nothing else about the room surprised me. There were doilies on every cushion where a head or hand might rest. All surfaces were dust-free and held only the barest essentials for convenience. An ancient TV set faced a recliner that matched the couch and was no doubt just as uncomfortable. Overall, a room as austere and cheerless as Bernie.

  I shook my head at myself. Poor Bernie. An hour ago I was fuming at her, thinking of all the times she'd been a thorn in my side. But now that she was gone, it didn't seem that important.

  "Okay," Ross started our conversation before he was fully in the room. "What time did you get here?" He moved his hat from the recliner where he'd placed it upon his arrival and sat down.

  "I suppose around eleven forty-five a.m. I called as soon as I found her."

  He pulled his little black notebook from the breast pocket of his tan uniform shirt. "Can you remember what you touched? Did you check her pulse?"

  "Yes, I checked her wrist for a pulse, even though I knew she was gone. Obviously, I touched the front and screen doors.” Looking at the ceiling, I thought back. “Her bedroom doorknob and the kitchen windowsill.”

  He scribbled in his notebook and asked, "Anything else?"

  "Um, the pencil on the kitchen table. Oh, and I sat in the office chair, so I probably touched that at some point."

  He sneaked a peek at me as he continued to write.

  "I may have handled other stuff. I was just worried about her, not thinking about leaving prints.” I sucked in my breath, suddenly more alert. "Do you think there's something suspicious?"

  "No. It's just procedure." He clicked his pen. "Looks like natural causes."

  "You know, it's strange though. She said she'd just been given a clean bill of health by her cardiologist. Apparently, he thought she would outlive him."

  "He must have overlooked something," Ross said casually.

  I had no doubt Bernie had been a pain in his neck. She probably reported every small infraction, from a too-loud radio to someone ignoring water conservation regulations that were invariably enforced each summer.

  "And did you notice how she was lying? Didn't that pose seem odd to you?"

  "Not particularly." He slid his pen and notepad back in his shirt pocket.

  "Oh, I found a lapel pin on the floor next to her. Though, it may have been in her hand and fallen out when I picked up her wrist."

  "Okay." He rubbed his eyes and let out a big breath. "Go ahead and push off. I'll call ya if we need anything else." With that, he walked back into Bernie's office.

  I could hear him giving Doug orders as I opened the front door screen and stepped out onto the porch.

  ✽✽✽

  Call after call came through Thursday night and into Friday. The news of Bernie's death and the fact that I'd found her had made the rounds quickly. By Friday morning, I'd gotten sick of the interrupting phone calls and let them go to voice mail. Everyone who called wanted to know the details of Bernie's death. They weren't the only ones who wanted to know what was going on.

  In the middle of the night, I'd woken up, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. In my dream, Bernie had sat up from her death position on the floor of her office and pointed her finger at me.

  "This is your fault," she said in hushed tones scarier than if she'd shouted. "You let me die."

  It had taken me ages to get back to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was her unnaturally-pale face, a death mask.

  Still groggy the next morning, I sat staring out my office window, my neglected manuscript pulled up on the computer. Haunting thoughts wouldn't leave my mind. What if Bernie's death was somehow tied to her libelous book? If that were true, was I partially responsible for her death?

  In my dream, Bernie accused me of letting her die. If that were true, it had to be related to the writer's circle. I had no other real contact with Bernie. My inner critic repeatedly whirled accusations of my culpability. If I hadn’t started WAC, Bernie wouldn’t have begun writing a book in the first place. If I’d controlled the situation with her libelous characters better, been more forceful with her, she would have created characters from her imagination instead.

  Trying to quiet the voice in my head, I told myself it was the nightmare upsetting me. But the thoughts kept resurfacing. It couldn’t be just a coincidence that Bernie had died the morning after she'd revealed another person as a sinner in her book, could it? But then, she'd outed the good Rev
erend. Surely he wouldn’t kill anyone, let alone a member of his congregation.

  Maybe it had been an accident. I closed my eyes and imagined the scene. Someone who'd shown up as a character went to Bernie's house early the next morning to confront her. They’d argued. Bernie got all worked up, and the stress caused her heart to give out.

  My eyes popped open, and I sighed in relief. That was it! Bernie’s pacemaker had given out. Maybe it was too old or faulty. But then a little voice whispered in my head, Then what about the way she was laid out?

  It had looked strange. As if she'd been posed, praying. A chill ran up my spine despite the warm breeze flowing in through the open office window.

  While Ross had said Bernie's death was likely due to natural causes, what if he were wrong? I wanted to believe him. I wanted to go to the funeral and then put it all behind me. But I couldn't shake the idea that there was more to the situation than met the eye. Was writing a mystery making me imagine foul play when there was none?

  Running my hand through my unbrushed hair, I turned back to the blinking cursor on the screen. Determined to put Bernie’s death out of my mind, I placed my fingers on the keyboard and glanced down at my detailed outline on the desk. I didn't love what I'd planned next for my flawed, but lovable protagonist, but nothing better was coming to me. Working out whether to go with my original outlined idea was as frustrating as attempting to work out my feelings about Bernie's sudden demise. The Muses were absent today. In fact, they rarely visited.

  I couldn't understand it. I was doing everything "right," and yet each word felt like it was being pulled from the depths of my soul. Excuses for why I couldn't write on any given day were easy to find. Bernie's death was just one in a long list of things I'd rather be thinking about.

  I dropped my head on my desk and let out a little whine. Why had I started a novel in the first place? Too often, I jumped in headfirst without thinking things through. Once I'd given in to my yearning to become the modern-day Agatha Christie, I'd leapt on the inspiration to form WAC. In my enthusiasm, I'd underestimated the challenges I'd have to deal with. Of course, having a member die because I couldn’t control the group had never crossed my mind.

  With an exasperated sigh, I shut down my computer. Maybe I just needed to rest for a while. Come back to the manuscript fresh.

  After swallowing a couple of aspirin, I lay down on top of the blankets on our bed. But my nap was a bust, my mind whirling, trying to make sense out of Bernie's death. Was it just the nightmare that had shaken me? Or maybe I was displacing my frustration with writing my book to Bernie. It could be I was simply regretting everything—starting a novel and the writer's circle. Whatever it was, I was ready for the nagging feeling of doom to vanish.

  ✽✽✽

  Everyone was quiet at the supper table that night.

  "How was your day, sweetheart?" Christian asked our daughter.

  Ellie played with her food while looking glumly down at it, one elbow on the table supporting her head. "It was okay," she said without looking up at her father.

  Turning to me, he asked the same question, trying to get a conversation started.

  I explained how my writing was going painfully slow and that I hadn't been able to keep my mind off Bernie's death today. "You may think I'm being paranoid, but I can't shake the idea that Bernie's death might not have been natural."

  Ellie scoffed.

  "What?" I asked.

  She just shook her head and went back to pushing food around her plate.

  "I thought Ross believed she had a heart attack or something," Christian said between forking chucks of casserole into his mouth.

  "He does. But she died the morning after she'd read a new chapter in her book. One that featured yet another character from the village. I should have done something to stop her sooner. Do you think it's possible someone put a stop to her libel?"

  "That's pretty drastic, wouldn't you say?"

  "Or maybe it was an accident." I explained my theory about Bernie's pacemaker clunking out on her during an argument.

  "Even if it was an accident brought on by stress, Bernie died of natural causes. She would eventually have become that upset and died."

  "It just doesn't sit right though. She’d just gotten a clean bill of health from the cardiologist recently. Wouldn’t he have been able to tell if her pacemaker wasn’t working as it should?”

  "How do you know about her cardiologist report?" Christian asked, one eyebrow quirked.

  "I overheard her tell Phyllis at the WAC meeting."

  "Well, it could have been something else. An embolism or a stroke. Maybe she had an undiagnosed health issue."

  "I guess." I caught myself pushing my food around like my daughter. Putting down my fork, I said, "She also had diabetes, so it could have been a complication of that, I suppose."

  "Oh, maybe it was a silent heart attack. One of my crew's mom just passed away not long ago because of that. The doctor told him it frequently kills diabetics. No symptoms pop up, so the person doesn't know there's anything wrong until it's too late."

  “Maybe.” I told him about the position she was in when I found her. “And I had this horrifying nightmare last night where Bernie accused me of letting her die.”

  "Babe, it sounds like your subconscious is trying to make sense of an unexpected death and the fact you found her body." Christian reached over and took my hand.

  I squeezed his hand. Maybe he was right. Besides, I had enough to deal with without worrying about Bernie’s death. And yet…

  “It just seems bizarre. Of all the times Bernie has hacked someone off, she just happens to die after a WAC meeting. And can you think of anyone else in Aspen Falls who had more enemies than Bernie? If anyone in the village would end up as a murder victim, wouldn't it be Bernie?"

  "Well, yes. Bernie should have kept her mouth shut. She was always sticking her nose in where it didn't belong. But I do think you are being paranoid. And, even if your hypothesis is true, you wouldn't be responsible. If she was killed, and that's a big if, the killer is to blame, not you."

  "Hm," I said noncommittally.

  Trying to draw my daughter out of herself, I asked her what she thought.

  "I think solving a couple of cases has gone to your head. Besides, who cares? Bernie was mean. No one will miss her."

  "That's beside the point, Ellie. Okay, so she was no one's favorite person, but she didn't deserve to be murdered."

  "Well, that's fine, because she wasn't. You're turning into a nosy-Parker, just like Bernie. Gawd!" She slammed her fork down on the table, stood up, and dashed up the stairs.

  Mouth agog, I exclaimed, "What was that about? Why is she being so nasty with me?"

  Christian scraped up the last morsels of his supper. "I guess we'll find out when she's ready to tell us."

  "Well, I wish she'd hurry up. I'm tired of walking on eggshells and worrying about her. My imagination is running wild with things that could be wrong that she doesn't want to tell us."

  "Babe, your imagination is always running wild."

  Chapter Four

  In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I woke with a scream stuck in my throat. This time, Bernie had been chasing me around her house with a carving knife.

  My throat ached as if I'd been screaming for hours. Creeping out of bed to avoid waking Christian, I went to the bathroom and drained a large glass of water. My throat no longer dry, I looked outside the bedroom window. My heart had slowed down to a normal pace, but I was wide awake. A full moon lit the yard below me. I'd never walked the labyrinth in the moonlight, but the thought was appealing.

  I sneaked outside after slipping on some flip-flops and walked in slow circles, the smooth river rocks crunching beneath my feet. Each time Bernie's angry face flashed in my mind, I brought my awareness back to my breath. With the solar yard lights guiding my way, I became drowsy enough to return to bed and fade ever-so-gently back to dreamland.

  I slept late the next morning to re
cover the sleep Bernie's unquieted ghost had stolen. Christian and I sat at the kitchen table, him reading the paper and me staring into space considering the day that stretched out before me. I was determined to enjoy writing my novel today, even if it killed me. And it just might.

  "Something in here about Bernie." He read the short article aloud. The medical examiner had declared her death due to arrhythmias leading to heart failure. Her funeral would be delayed, allowing time for the family to travel. Details would be forthcoming.

  Three things bothered me about the report. First, why hadn’t her cardiologist discovered a problem with her pacemaker? The gizmo was supposed to regulate heart rhythm, so why had it failed her?

  Next, how had the medical examiner gotten the autopsy done so quickly? In our neck of the woods, the ME was responsible for a lot of territory, just like the sheriff. It was surprising she could have finished so quickly. Was it possible she’d rushed through it and had missed something important?

  Finally, there was no mention of a viewing. Folks around here always had viewings for their loved ones. I guess Bernie's children hadn't wanted one. Did they think no one would show so it would be a waste of time? It didn't matter if you were friends with the deceased or not, people went to viewings to pay their respects to the family.

  I'd heard rumors Bernie's children hated the sight of her and to my knowledge, they hadn't been back to their hometown since they'd left for college. They probably wanted to do their duty, bury their mother and then get back to their lives.

  "So now that's settled, you can focus on writing your book." Christian snapped the crisp newspaper.

  I stared blankly at the refrigerator, my chin resting on my fist. The thought of working on my book didn’t rouse me. But then, with so little sleep, I’m not sure anything would.

  Christian's guffaw brought me out of my reverie. "What's so funny?"