Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou) (4 page)

"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 full 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.

I examined her idea of "creative cooking." Instead of making a cake, she had chosen a Japanese theme with a rock fountain that trickled running water. There were sushi rolls planted around the fountain to resemble the greenery of the peaceful scene. It was so darn tasteful. The only problem was that the constant sound of running water was driving me crazy. I had already been to the bathroom twice. When Vanessa spied my little crocodile cake in the Easter grass she put her hand over her mouth as if it might be a bit of roadkill I had frosted.

"What is that?" she asked, looking at me as if I had an unsightly blemish that had just appeared on my chin.

"Oh," I said, looking down at the cake. "A crocodile."

"Really?" she asked, doubting my credibility. Just as I was about to explain to her what I thought of her sushi fountain, Martha Hoffman walked up to our tables, wearing an oversized sweatshirt that read, "So many books, so little time."

"Vanessa, darling, I just love what you've done showcasing the very essence of Japanese cuisine." Martha beamed. She picked up a copy of
Girl Meets Fifth Avenue
and started paging through it.

"You know I'll have to have a signed copy of your book for the library. The people of Pecan Bayou will be so surprised to know we have such a talented writer in our midst," she aid.

"I'll be glad to sign one for you right now, Martha." Vanessa reached for her rust-colored leather bag behind the table and took out a pen. "Do you want me to sign it with my real name or my pen name, Vanessa Scarlett?"

"Oh, well, you had better use your pen name. Not everyone knows you personally, as I do." She said it as if she belonged to some elite private club. I had this strange feeling that if Vanessa Markham wasn't trying to get a copy of her book in the library, she wouldn't give Martha Hoffman the time of day. Martha didn't see that, though. The book nerd had finally been accepted at the cheerleader's lunch table. As Vanessa signed her book with a flourish, Martha's eyes drifted to my table and appraised my little crocodile cake. A weak smile my way was all she could muster. She didn't seem to want a copy of my book for her precious stacks.

Vanessa closed the book and handed it to Martha. "Now you just keep your money. My gift to you." Martha held the book tightly and puffed out like a little peacock showing off its plumage. It was all I could take, and besides, the running water was getting to me again.

"I'm heading off to the restroom. Will you watch my table?"

"Again?" Vanessa pouted. "If you must, but don't be gone too long."

I escaped from my post and walked down the mall toward the bathroom. When I came out, I strolled over to Pattie's booth. PattieCake's was in full glory with its pink-striped bunting. Pattie had brought along a high school girl to help her with sales today, and I counted at least twelve trays of cupcakes behind them. They were, by far, the most attended-to table in the mall, with people lining up to purchase Pattie's luscious creations.

Pattie pushed back a strand of hair as she pulled out a loaded tray and plucked out two pink cupcakes with wax paper. As if she could feel my eyes watching her, she glanced my way and upon recognizing me, rolled her eyes and smiled. Even here she was insanely busy. She looked at me as if to say, "Sorry, I'm at it again." Once Pattie filled her orders, she said something to her helper and then came around to the front of the table.

"We decided at the last minute to pack up some cupcakes. Now I'm glad we did. How's traffic at your table?"

"Uh, quiet. Forgot my cupcakes." As if to further humiliate my little green crocodile, on Pattie's table stood an amazing tower of cupcakes. There were six levels, complete with a full-sized layer cake on the top. Each cupcake was frosted with a light yellow frosting, and on their fronts was a delicately sculpted Texas bluebonnet. It was a work of sheer artistry.

"Do you like it? I was up all last night finishing it."

"It's incredible." I answered, feeling as if I had just walked into the Sistine Chapel and decided to look up.

"How did your crocodile cake turn out? Did you get him to stick together?"

"Yes, but he's nothing compared to this. I suppose it doesn't help that I am right next to Vanessa Markham and her sushi fountain."

Pattie shook her head. "Really? A fountain of sushi? How very upscale of her."

"Yeah, well all she really had to do was buy the little fountain, buy the sushi and arrange it all, and yet it is still getting a lot more respect than my little crocodile."