Murder Between the Covers

she swore it would not happen again. She felt as if an angel was leading her to their unhallowed marital bed, the scene of many despairing pairings.

She picked up a lace pillow that had been embroidered by a de Quincy maiden two hundred years ago, and put it over Simon’s face. He hardly struggled. When the riding crop fell from his wretched hand, she knew the man who defiled her was dead.

“Oh, Lance, Lance, I did it for you,” Jillian cried in an agony of triumph. And then she heard the boudoir door creak.

After slogging through mountains of rocky prose, Helen had hit pay dirt. The drunken Simon had been smothered.

Just like the drunken Page Turner and poor Mr. Davies.

Maybe it wouldn’t convince Detective Gilbert, but Melanie’s favorite method of murder definitely had Helen’s attention.

She set the coffee cup down and read. There was no chance she’d fall asleep now.

Jillian got away with Simon’s murder, thanks to those bluebell eyes, which she batted shamelessly, and a devilmay-care police investigation.

But that did not free Jillian. After Simon’s death, she was blackmailed by the de Quincy family retainer, the oppressive housekeeper, Mrs. Hermione Buncaster. Mrs. B. had photographed Jillian as she put the fatal pillow over Simon’s face. She had the photos under lock and key. It took months of frantic searching to discover their hiding place. Of course, the resourceful Jillian had a way to save herself.

Little did Mrs. Buncaster know that Jillian had befriended a small-time burglar named Melvin Larkey.

He, too, was a patient at the dental clinic. Jillian taught him to floss nightly, and saved his teeth from dreadful plaque buildup. “You showed me how to pick me teeth proper, little missy,” said Mel. “In gratitude, I’ll show you how to pick a lock.”

Jillian vowed to use her new lock-picking powers only for good. Thanks to Mel, she could save herself and her innocent son.

Jillian was a lock picker? Now that was interesting.

Helen bet this was another autobiographical detail. It took skill and patience to wield teeth-cleaning tools. It was a small step to picking locks. And locks didn’t squirm and yell, “Ouch.”

With nimble fingers, Jillian unlocked the door to the housekeeper’s room. Mel would have been so proud. A Tandy DE345 lock looks difficult, but it always gives way after a few tries. The locked drawer, which had an old-fashioned Peerless lock, could have been opened with a hairpin. Jillian’s expert fingers knew its sordid secret in seconds. She took one last sweeping gaze around the room of her tormentor, then set fire to the photos and the negatives in the metal wastebasket. She gazed exultantly at the rising flames, and knew she was finally free.

Mrs. B. left town and was never heard from again. Jillian married the honest dentist Lance at last. Helen hoped for their future happiness that their eyes didn’t go sliding anywhere.

She closed the dreadful book and thought again of dear Mr. Davies. He may have given Helen the key to solve his own murder. Helen was wrong about Melanie. She’d made the same mistake as some men—if a woman was a blonde with a big chest, she must be dumb.

The book was badly written, but Helen had learned a lot.

Melanie thought it was OK to smother dissolute drunks.

Her heroine got away with murder and lived happily ever after.

Melanie was not disorganized. She wrote a whole book—a bad one, maybe, but even that took effort. She knew how to construct a murder plot.

Melanie knew a thing or two about lock picking. And that meant she could have easily gotten into Peggy’s tented apartment.

But even if she could get into the Coronado, where would she get the SCBA breathing gear? Helen doubted that even the most grateful patient would lend her that.

Trevor said it cost two thousand dollars new. Helen didn’t think Melanie had that kind of money.

Helen moved slowly around the bookstore that morning.

She’d had less than three hours’ sleep. But she felt she was finally getting somewhere. On her lunch hour, she bought a double espresso and walked over to the Broward County Library to check out SCBA gear on the Internet. Unfortunately, every computer was taken, and it would be twenty minutes before one was free. That might not be enough time.

Helen couldn’t wait. She found a pay phone, called her friend Sarah and prayed she was home.

She answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, Helen, what are you doing?”

Helen could see curly-haired Sarah in her Hollywood beach condo, her computer set up so she could watch the ocean. “I don’t have much time to talk. I have a suspect who may know how to pick locks.”

“That would get him in the door.”

“Her,” Helen said. “But I don’t know if she has access to SCBA breathing gear. Can you do an Internet search for me?”

“Sure. What do you want me to look for?”

“Can regular people buy it, or do you need a special license? Can you find it for less than two thousand dollars?”

“Want to hang on while I search?” Sarah said.

“Better not. I’ll call you at two.”

By the time Helen walked back to the store, her lunch hour was nearly over. At one o’clock, she opened her cash register, and watched the hands loiter on the clock face. She didn’t think a court order would get them to move.

Finally, it was two. She asked Brad to cover for her for five minutes. Back in the break room, she called Sarah.

“I’ve got good news,” her friend said. “Anyone can buy SCBA equipment. In fact, after nine-eleven there’s been quite a bit of interest in it. People are buying it the way our grandfathers built nuclear bomb shelters in their backyards.

They’re afraid of a poison-gas attack.”

“If there was an attack, would you want to be one of the few survivors?”

“No, thanks,” Sarah said. “I’d get stuck with the cleanup.

The point is, anyone can buy this gear. It’s expensive new.

But you can also buy it used. You can buy used thirty-minute units for around five hundred dollars.”

“You did have good news,” Helen said. “I couldn’t see this woman spending two thousand dollars. But she might come up with five hundred. Suddenly, Page Turner’s death is positively cheap.”

“OK, I did your research. Now tell me who your suspect is,” Sarah said.

“Melanie, the print-on-demand author. She wears those plastic see-through heels. That’s why Mr. Davies said she looked like Cinderella. She’s got blond hair, too. I read her book last night. She’s a terrible writer. But her character smothers the bad guy, and then picks some locks to get the incriminating photos.”

“Interesting,” Sarah said.

“That’s because I left out the dull parts,” Helen said.

“Here’s how I see it: Melanie, a blond, blue-eyed dental assistant, hungers for romance. She meets Page Turner and imagines this wonderful future. She’ll have a mad, passionate affair with the bookstore owner. They’ll have great liter-ary discussions, and, incidentally, he’ll promote her book.

She falls into Page Turner’s clutches.”

“Did you say clutches?” Sarah said.

“It’s not my fault. I’ve been reading Melanie’s romantic mystery or mysterious romance.

“Page sees it differently. He has her for a quickie on his couch. He expected her to go quietly. But Melanie isn’t like the others. She had dreams not just for herself, but her beloved book. Page Turner shattered those precious dreams. So Melanie struck back at her seducer.”

“How much longer before you talk normally?” Sarah said.

“It should wear off shortly,” Helen said. “What do you think?”