Broken Vows Mystery 01-For Better, for Murder Read online

  For Better, for Murder © 2009 by Lisa Bork

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  I was one step away. One step—one sale, in fact—from becoming a successful businesswoman in Wachobe, New York. An insignificant achievement to some, but a meaningful one to me. On the other hand, one misstep and my business would be on the brink of bankruptcy. That’s why I wore my dress boots today.

  The ice and snow outside my window didn’t say dress boots. They said thermal insulation with leak-proof rubber. The weather also didn’t say “drive a hot new Ferrari” like the one under my showroom pin lights. But I’d snatched this Italian stallion out of arid Scottsdale, Arizona, and had it delivered here to my sports car boutique with one of my best customers in mind. Because I liked to think I knew a thing or two about desire. The need for the fast lane. The hunger to show the world what money can buy. The longing for a pre-owned but pristine F430 Ferrari Spider. Most men would be happy to take it out on the wet roads and see if they could make it hydroplane. I counted on Mr. Hughes of the Hughes grocery store chain to take the step and pay to become that man.

  I crossed the showroom floor with my hand outstretched as he stamped snow off his Gucci loafers. “Mr. Hughes, I have a beauty to show you.”

  His frosty fingertips squeezed mine with genteel pressure. “I was delighted to receive your call, Miss Asdale.”

  The phone on the showroom reception desk rang. Mr. Hughes glanced toward it before continuing, “There’s nothing like Italian engineering.”

  “Exactly. Please, come take a look.”

  The phone rang a second time as I ushered him to the Ferrari. “This is a 2006 Rosso Corsa Spider with only fifteen hundred and two miles. The previous owner was a collector. Notice the—”

  “Excuse me, Jo.” My mechanic, Cory Kempe, stood wiping his hands on a grease rag in the doorway between the showroom and the garage. He was three inches shorter than my five-foot-four, and wiry with porcelain skin, poodle-tight auburn hair, and girly eyelashes.

  “You have a phone call. It’s urgent.” He wiggled his eyebrows, a signal that the call was about my sister, who currently resided in the state psychiatric center.

  Calls about her were always deemed urgent by the person making them, usually her. I didn’t always agree, but I would have trouble remembering the Ferrari’s selling points if I didn’t verify that was the case this time.

  Mr. Hughes gestured toward the phone. “Please. I’ll take my time and look the car over.”

  “Why don’t you start with the interior?” I whipped open the passenger door, hoping a waft of Italian leather would help clinch the sale.

  A man’s body flopped out headfirst, his skull hitting the floor with a thump.

  I yelped and jumped back a foot.

  Mr. Hughes jumped right along with me, stretching his arm in front of me.

  My gaze flickered between the dead man’s vacant eyes and the knife in his chest. Bile backed up in my throat, washing my tongue with its bitterness. I recognized him, even though his face was twisted in shock and pain, eyes bulging from the sockets, his fingers spread wide as though pleading. Blood had drenched his green-and-white-striped sweater and stone-colored chinos. Round drops of it spotted his tan loafers. For one wild second, I considered pulling the knife out and trying to restore him to the healthy, smiling man I remembered.

  The phone buzzed, signaling I’d left my call on hold too long. It jolted us into action.

  Mr. Hughes did not get to be the CEO of a major chain without the ability to remain cool in stressful situations. He raised one of his plucked and trimmed white eyebrows, studied the body, and held out his hand.

  “I seem to have caught you at a bad time, Miss Asdale. Perhaps I can make another appointment for later in the week.”

  After my damp hand met his remarkably sweat-free grasp, he bowed his head, clicked his heels, and departed into the early December snowfall, leaving me suspended in the Land of Oz. I wished I had the option not to get involved, but this house had landed squarely on me.

  “I’m sorry, Jo. Did I chase him off?”

  I tore my gaze from the dead man and lifted it to Cory’s questioning face.

  “No. We … ah …” I gestured to the body.

  He crinkled his brow and jogged across the showroom to investigate. When he caught sight of the corpse, he froze. His mouth opened. He sucked in air.

  I decided I’d better be the one to summon the police.

  I darted around the front end of the car and ran for the phone in my office. Line one blinked red. I pressed line two and dialed 911. The operator’s nasal tones filled the line. I took a deep breath.

  “This is Jolene Asdale from Asdale Auto Imports. I just found a dead man in one of my showroom cars. He’s been stabbed. Can you send someone right away?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Hold on while I contact the officer in your vicinity.”

  It was a matter of seconds before she was back. “Would you like me to stay on the line with you until they arrive?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I heard the operator’s admonition not to touch anything as I switched to line one.

  A dial tone greeted me on line one. Just as well. Even my sister couldn’t upstage a dead man.

  I rejoined Cory, who had found his wind and was now leaning to the left with his head upside down in order to get a better look at the body. “Isn’t that—?”

  “Yes.”

  We took several steps back and stood silently side by side, unable to take our eyes off the scene. Questions ran through my mind. Why had someone killed him? Why here? Had he suffered? Who would tell his family? How would they take it?

  I looked up when the Chief of Police for Wachobe rushed through the showroom entrance, bent at the waist with both hands in front of him as though ready
for guns blazing. But Walter wasn’t armed. He wasn’t even in uniform. His navy sweat suit had baggy knees and what appeared to be a bleach spot on the sleeve, making him look more like the fifty-something wrestling coach he was than the Chief of Police. His gaze darted around the room and came to rest on Cory and me.

  I gave him a tentative wave, uncertain of the protocol.

  He straightened, walked over, took one look at the body, and vomited on his Converse sneakers.

  Cory looked away.

  I patted Walter’s back. “We know it’s horrifying.”

  He hung his head, either in agreement or shame.

  A red and white sheriff’s car skidded to a halt on the sidewalk in front of the shop minutes later, lights flashing. Deputy Ray Parker entered the showroom in his perfectly pressed gray uniform with matching ski jacket, immediately taking up all available space with his six-foot-three, 220-pound frame. His nose twitched when he reached our little group, but if he noticed the vomit on Walter, he chose not to comment.

  He tilted his head and looked at the body. “Isn’t that—?”

  “Yes.” I hissed the word, causing Walter to jump. While the four of us didn’t know everyone who lived in Wachobe and certainly not all who passed through, we knew each other and the dead man.

  “Any idea how he got here?”

  I knew Ray was talking to me. “None.”

  “Why’s he dead?”

  “I have no idea.” I couldn’t imagine a less likely or more unjustifiable murder candidate.

  “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know. I opened the car door and he fell out.”

  “All right. Cory, are you at all involved in this?” Ray fixed his steely stare on Cory, who raised his hands in surrender.

  “Not me!”

  “Then you can head into the shop for now. Take a look around and see if you notice anything out of place, but don’t touch anything.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Walter, the restroom is in the corner. You might want to freshen up before the rest of the crew gets here.”

  Ray didn’t wait for a response before turning to me.

  I couldn’t meet his eyes. It was hard to live in the same town as my almost-ex-husband. It was even harder now not to step closer to him in the hopes he would put his arms around me and make this whole nightmare go away. Ray was good at things like that.

  He pulled out his wallet. “Darlin’, would you mind going to get me a venti caramel macchiato?”

  I imagined I heard feminists gasping, but Ray was not the stereotypical male chauvinist in uniform. Quite the opposite, in fact. He only called me by my given name when he was mad or feeling the urge, neither of which were likely right now. He did need a cup of coffee in the morning, especially after coming off the overnight shift as I suspected he had. He also knew me well enough to realize another dead body in a car would remind me of the worst day of my life, a day I tried to push farther back in my memories with each passing year. I realized he was being kind by removing me from the crime scene.

  I accepted the ten and tried not to notice that Ray still carried a picture of me in his wallet, my college yearbook picture with the long brown curly hair he loved so much, the hair that gave me the Valerie Bertinelli look. Her picture hung on the inside of his locker door all through high school. Both pictures were of pretty girls with sparkling eyes and thick eyelashes. I didn’t know if Valerie still had her sparkle. I lost mine around the time she ditched Eddie Van Halen, and my hair had been cut off years before to the businesslike bob brushing my chin now.

  “Thank you.” Ray squeezed my shoulder before turning his attention to the dead man.

  As I crossed Main Street to the Starbucks, I tried not to relive the tingle that had run down my spine at his touch. I hadn’t been touched in years. Entirely my own fault, of course. I’d had offers, more than I could recall. I was just not that kind of girl. I was a good girl, not out of religious principles or fears of STDs, but out of self-respect and a desire for happily ever after. Well, that and an irrational fear of pregnancy.

  I placed Ray’s order and listened to the whoosh of the coffee machines, trying to think of anything else but the dead man in my showroom. His tortured gaze was now burned onto the back of my eyelids. I took a deep breath to cleanse away the scent of death. Although I never drank coffee, I enjoyed its aroma. It reminded me of Ray.

  I shook my head, amazed and rueful that a few minutes in his presence had shaken my resolve. He was the only man I ever loved, but he had one or two traits I couldn’t overlook, let alone love.

  A man in line jostled me. I shifted to give him better access to the napkins. The coffee house was full. I glanced at the inhabi-

  tants, passing over and returning to the perfectly coiffed blonde sitting by the fireplace. She looked up and leapt to her feet, dashing over to join me. My heart sank.

  “Jo, how are you? Still dating that accountant—what was his name, again? Tim Lapham?”

  “No, we’re not dating anymore. Not for months.” And not ever again. Tim now lay dead on my showroom floor—from all appearances, murdered—and I had no clue as to why. I decided to keep that information to myself, not only because Celeste was a champion gossip, but also because it didn’t feel like my place to announce the news, especially before Walter or Ray informed Tim’s ex-wife and children.

  “I didn’t think so, not after the way you were fighting.” A smug expression settled on her face.

  “Fighting? What are you talking about, Celeste?”

  “Last week. You and Tim were standing in front of your showroom window. Your arms were waving and his were waving, and then you hit him.”

  My jaw dropped. Celeste managed the Talbots next door. I bought most of my size eight clothes there as a concession to my status as a businesswoman in this community. I figured the clothes made it seem like I had good taste, because in the moments when I was most honest with myself, I had to admit that after thirty-seven years I’d only developed good taste in cars. Maybe I’d shop elsewhere now that I knew she spent her work hours spying on me.

  “Celeste, we were discussing zoning. I was pointing to the street, Tim was pointing, and I bumped his arm by accident.”

  “Well, the way he jumped back, I thought you’d struck him.” Celeste folded her arms across her chest and continued, “A couple of the other shopkeepers thought the same.”

  “No, Celeste, you all misunderstood.” I had been on quite a rant that day, directed more at the town than Tim, though. I didn’t even remember all of what I’d said, and to someone looking through the window at us, it probably had seemed heated.

  “Okay, fine. Seen Ray lately?” I heard the interest in her voice. She’d be happy to become the second Mrs. Ray Parker. I, on the other hand, went back to my maiden name right after we split.

  I could see him through the front window of Starbucks, leaning against his patrol car and talking on his radio in front of my shop, which butted up to the sidewalk where several interested onlookers had gathered.

  My sports car boutique sat smack dab in the middle of the town’s main street, the only cedar-shingled building on the west end before the quarter mile of original and picturesque brick and clapboard structures dating to the 1790s. That was what Tim and I had been discussing. Some of the town mucketymucks thought my business stuck out like a marigold in a pansy bed and wanted to see it relocated to a back street, killing any walk-in business possibilities. And in a town like Wachobe where lakefront property sold in the millions and rented for thousands a week, the average window shopper might have the bucks to stroll in and buy a Ferrari.

  Celeste turned to see what had captured my attention. “What’s going on?”

  I accepted the caramel macchiato from the barista and held it up to Celeste’s inquiring face.

  “I gotta run. This is for Ray.”

  By the time I crossed the street and handed him the coffee, Celeste had her nose pressed to the window of Starbucks in just the rig
ht position to superimpose her face over the face of the mermaid stenciled on the glass. Ray hooked his radio to his belt, took a sip and followed my gaze to her.

  “Isn’t that siren in the window Celeste Martin?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, if the shoe fits …” Ray took another sip before announcing the coroner’s ETA of thirty minutes. Wachobe had to rely on the nearby big city for those services. “The crime scene techs will be here in fifteen.”

  Ray set his coffee on the roof of his patrol car and reached inside. He withdrew a dark green parka from the front seat and put it around my shoulders. I wished he had some slipcovers for my leather boots which were now two inches deep in slush.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  He sipped his coffee as I told my brief tale. He asked a few questions I didn’t have answers to. Then he sighed, creating a cloud of condensation in the frigid air.

  I tilted my head way back so I could look into his eyes. “What?”

  “I’d tell you what, but if you recall the last time I did, you ran my toes over with the Porsche and filed for divorce.”

  How quickly we fall into our old familiar patterns. But now was not the time. The dead man inside merited all our attention. And something else I’d forgotten … oh, yes, Erica.

  I took the parka from my shoulders and held it out to Ray. He accepted it without further comment. I sidestepped the gawks to march through the shop’s front door, accidentally whacking Walter, who was standing guard. I apologized and headed for my office.

  “Jolene, you can’t come in here.” He dogged me across the showroom. “There may be fingerprints in your office. Evidence. You’re going to mess it up.”

  This from the man who regurgitated on the crime scene. “I’m going to sit in my chair, Walter. I already sat in it once this morning. I also used the phone. I promise I won’t touch anything else. I swear.” I closed the door to my office in his face, blocking him and my view of Ray, and dropped into my black leather executive chair with a squeak, folding my hands in my lap as a precaution. I would never thwart the law intentionally, but I would thwart Ray.

  The first time was six years ago when I invited my sister, Erica, to come live with us. She suffers from bipolar disorder and was often suicidal. Although Ray never said a word, I knew he resented her constant presence in our lives for the next three years. Even I felt relieved when she was admitted to the state psychiatric center, where she’d resided on and off since then.