Amanda Flower
Maid of Murder
Dedication
For my parents
Rev. Pamela Flower and Thomas Flower
and
in memory of
Calvin
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Rosalind Greenberg for plucking my manuscript out of the thousands, and to my editor Jerri Corgiat for helping it shine.
Thanks to my Sisters in Crime, Maria Hudgins and Sarah Parrott, for their critiques and support, and to my dear friends, Melody Steiner, Jen Pula, and Melissa Williamson, who read and commented on the manuscript.
Hugs to Mariellyn Dunlap for her edits, friendship, and willingness to always accompany me on a road trip, be it near or far.
Love and gratitude to my mother, Rev. Pamela Flower, who read every word ten times over and was there every step of the way.
Finally, to my Father in Heaven, thank you.
Chapter One
As a child, I dreaded the Fourth of July despite the fireworks, the barbecue, and the general flag flapping. The holiday signaled that summer was half over. And though my mother chided me about my attitude, called me her pint-sized pessimist, and told me to see the “glass half full,” I moped through the holiday. I knew—come the next day—the discount store and supercenters would have fresh back-to-school displays of yellow number two pencils and college-ruled notebook paper. I was a fair student and mid-list popular, but I never wanted to go back to school. As an adult, when I actually had to work every day, my attitude toward Independence Day changed. To me, any day that starts as a paid holiday is a good one.
But that Independence Day morning, my brother called.
When the telephone jangled near my sleeping head, I sat bolt upright and sent my cat Templeton flying across the room in a hissing cloud of black fur.
Who died? was my first thought, followed closely by, who’s about to die? for waking me.
I groped for my glasses, shoved them on my face, and looked at the clock. It read four minutes after six in electric blue numerals. The phone rang again. I snatched it up.
“India?” My brother’s voice, hyped up on caffeinated pop and mathematical theorems, zipped out over the line “Could you look up Yang-Mills Theory for me at the library today? I think I’m really onto something. I’d do it myself, you know, but I’m hitting a wall here with work. And the library’s slow, right, because it’s summer—”
“Mark.” I interrupted.
“Huh?”
“The library’s closed today.” I swatted a hank of long, dark hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear.
“It’s closed? But why?” He sounded shocked.
“It’s the Fourth of July. You know, Happy Independence Day and all that.” I glared at the clock. “It’s also six-oh-five in the morning on a day I don’t have to work,” I added in case he was having trouble grasping the point, which Mark often did.
“It is?”
“Where are you?” I asked while rubbing my gray eyes, which were gritty from sleep.
“In my office?”
“You don’t sound very sure of that.”
There was a pause. “Definitely my office. I’m working on this really great theorem. I think I have it now, India. My dissertation—”
“I understand,” I stepped in before he could enter another long-winded explanation about The Dissertation. He’d worked on it for half a decade. It’d become a bit of a swear word in my parents’ house.
“Well, Mark, I better let you get back to it. Call me at the library tomorrow, and I’ll see if I have time to look up that Yohoo-Miller thing for you.”
“Yang-Mills. It’s a partial differential equation that—”
“Whatever.” I moved to hang up, but his lingering silence was palpable. I sighed. “Was that all?”
Mark swallowed hard. “I know she’s getting married.”
Geez. I knew he’d eventually find out one way or another, but I wished it had been after the ceremony.
“Mark, I—”
“Don’t lie to me; I saw it in the paper. She’s getting married next weekend. You knew. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“Uh.” What could I say? I did know. Mark would be devastated when he found out how well I knew. I tucked that thought away to deal with later.
“Why didn’t you tell me? It’s not like I’d care or anything.”
Sure, I thought, and my watercolors would make me millions of dollars someday. I took a deep breath. “I didn’t know how to tell you, and Olivia didn’t want to hurt you, either.”
“Thanks, anyway,” he whispered and hung up.
I stared at the receiver, then knocked it against my forehead a few times before dropping it back in its cradle.
After fifteen minutes, I threw off the sheet and stomped to the bathroom. “Next time he has a day off, I’m calling at three in the morning. That little . . .”
After a shower and breakfast, I no longer felt so hateful toward Mark. I knew I should have told him that Olivia was getting married. I should have told him months ago when I learned about it, but there never seemed to be a good time. And the way marriages go these days, I thought, it would be much easier to announce that Olivia was getting a divorce in a couple of years.
I clicked on the TV.
“It’s going to be a beautiful Independence Day, folks,” the weather girl from the Cleveland station said. “We might break some records. Temperatures in the upper nineties and ninety percent humidity, Remember, don’t mow your lawn until after sundown. There’s an Ozone alert—”
I clicked off the screen.
By nine that morning, I was sprawled across a sheet I used to cover my poorly chosen couch in order to avoid touching the hot, itchy fabric. It was beautifully upholstered in royal purple velvet. I had found it at an estate sale in Chicago. It had cost a mint to have it shipped to Stripling, and, not until it was safely stowed in my apartment did I learn that it was uncomfortable in the summertime and a magnet for black cat hair. My long legs hung over its end, and Templeton lay in the same position next to me on the floor. I periodically spritzed him, then myself, with ice water from a spray bottle that I normally used to wet down my unruly hair. Templeton shook his head like a dog every time he was hit with a spray of water but didn’t move out of its reach. Even an aquaphobic
