Read sample My First Murder

CHAPTER ONE

I could almost feel more freckles popping out on my face as I parked my Mustang and walked through the glaring morning sun to my office. It was hot for May. Too hot for me. I stooped down and grabbed the newspaper from where it lay on the steps and glanced at the front page before going inside.

the headlines screamed. What a depressing way to start a day. Shoving the paper under my arm, I inserted the key in the lock and went into the cool of the air-conditioning before learning anything more about the deceased.

As usual, I was the first to arrive. So I entered the kitchen and, after piling my things on a chair, put the kettle on to boil. I then spread my morning paper across the kitchen table to read the murder article.

I wasn’t comforted by the last line of the article. There was nothing I could do about my age, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to begin looking for a roommate.

After brewing my cup of tea, I lit a cigarette and sat down at the table to scan the remainder of the news before I could be interrupted either by the arrival of my assistant, Margaret Applebaum, or, hopefully, by the jingling of the telephone. I should be so lucky. The phone hadn’t rung in days. If the phone did ring, it was usually a wrong number.

All businesses have their ups and downs. Mine was down right now. Except for people dropping in to make Xerox copies, there didn’t seem to be much sense in keeping the office open. I thought about discharging Candy, our little half-day high school helper. I hated to do it right before school got out. I knew she was relying on me for her summer job, but the income from photocopying wasn’t enough to pay the utilities, and serving legal papers for lawyers was barely keeping us afloat—not to mention the lack of what I opened the business for, what was supposed to be our real work: investigations.

Being the eternal optimist that I am, though, I hadn’t made the final decision yet. I just knew that any day now a paying client was going to walk through that front door, take one look at the professional decor of our offices, and hire us to do a difficult, and expensive, job. I was relying heavily on my optimism to get us by.

Admittedly, things were getting me down lately. Thank goodness I’d had enough foresight to have a few sidelines, but even the typing service we offered was off. What was happening?

I scanned Ann Landers and the comics, didn’t find anyone I knew listed in the obituaries, and was putting away the newspaper when Margaret finally showed up.

I heard the clanging of the cowbell that we had attached to the front door last year when a weirdo had silently slipped in on us. (But that’s another story.) And then I heard Margaret call out to me, “Sorry I’m late, Mavis.”

Yep, that’s me. Mavis Davis. My mother had a sense of humor. I’m the owner/operator of Mavis Davis Productions. It says so right on the door in small print under the title, Owned and operated by Mavis Davis. I swear.

“It’s all right, Margaret,” I called back to her. “I was just finishing up with the paper.”

“Anything exciting in the news?” she asked when she came into the kitchen to mix her instant coffee.

“Nothing more than a little murder,” I answered as I turned to look at her.

“Murder, ugh.”

“Wow! When did you do that?” I asked as I shielded my eyes from the glare of Margaret’s freshly bleached-blond hair.

“Last night. Do you like it?” A hopeful expression on her face, Margaret twirled around so that I could get the full effect.

Not being an unkind person by nature, I hesitated to answer Margaret’s query. The hair might have been stunning on someone else. It might even have been stunning on Margaret, but for the fact that Mother Nature had chosen to endow her with dark brown eyes and almost-black eyebrows that were too much of a contrast. I hate to say this, but it looked like a cheap wig. “It’s a lovely shade of blond,” I answered generously. “What made you decide to do it?”

“Well, with you being a redhead and all, and Candy normally having brown hair except when she sprays it green or blue, I thought I should be a blonde and add a little excitement to the office.”

“Candy’s hair is enough excitement for me, thank you very much.”

“Aw, you hate it, don’t you?” Margaret’s lower lip jutted out as if she were about to cry.

“No, now I didn’t say that. I expect it will grow on me, in time. It’s just such a shock. You had a lovely head of black hair—much like I’ve often wished I’d been born with.”

“I didn’t know it would turn out quite this light,” Margaret said a bit anxiously, the tears on the very verge of spilling out.

“I can imagine. Well, not to worry. I’m sure we’ll all get used to it. Drink your coffee now and take your time with the paper. I’m going in to straighten up the office.” I smiled at her encouragingly as I made my exit from the kitchen. I felt a little nauseated.

Not ten minutes later, after I’d emptied the waste baskets and removed the dust covers from the typewriters and our lonely little computer on which many payments were still owed, in came a large, blustering, red-faced man, whose brow was sweaty from the Texas heat.

He was dressed in navy polyester pants and a short-sleeved plaid sports shirt with the edge of a T-shirt peeking out over the top of the highest button he’d done up. He had stained running shoes on his feet, and he clutched a folded newspaper in a hand that was the size of a bear paw. I took one look at his attire, his crew cut, and his sleepy-looking blue eyes, and knew instantly that this was not the client of my dreams.

But, as I found out later, I was wrong.

“Good morning,” I said pleasantly. I always greeted each person who came through that door as if they had an estate worth a million dollars. Let’s face it, you never know.

The man grunted as he pushed the door closed behind him and came up to the counter behind which I stood with my best smile pasted on my face.

“What can I do for you this morning, sir?” I asked, anticipating that he wanted to photocopy an article out of the newspaper. What other logical explanation was there for carrying around the cumbersome Chronicle when it would have been ever so much more convenient to leave it in the car?

“I’m lookin’ for Mavis Davis,” his deep voice rumbled.

I flinched. I often still do when I hear my full name first thing in the morning. I keep thinking that someday I’ll wake up and find that it was all a nightmare—that my mother didn’t christen me so cruelly.

“I’m Miss Davis,” I said radiantly, sticking out my hand for him to shake. “And you are?”

“Carl Singleton,” he said, covering my not small hand with his paw and shaking it firmly. I like a firm handshake. It tells a lot about a person.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Singleton,” I said, withdrawing my hand. His name had a familiar ring to it. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to talk to you about investigating a murder,” he said as he opened the paper and pointed to the front-page article I’d seen earlier. I wished that I’d read further.

It just goes to show you that you can never tell who may walk through the door. And possibly even that looks can be deceiving. This man was not exactly the client I’d envisioned. I have to tell you. He didn’t look like he could afford to pay. Nevertheless, far be it from me to turn away anyone without hearing them out.

The expression on my face became appropriately serious as I contemplated Mr. Singleton’s purpose in coming. Never before had I been involved with such an investigation. This could be my first murder.

CHAPTER TWO

Anticipation beat wildly in my chest. “Let me get my assistant in here to mind the store, so to speak, and then we’ll go into my office where we can discuss this matter privately,” I said. I hastened from behind the counter and darted into the kitchen to get Margaret who was frittering away precious time with her coffee and the newspaper.

“I’ve possibly got a live one, Margaret,” I whispered fiercely as I passed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Will you get out there and look busy while I talk to him in my office?”

Margaret must have heard the urgency in my voice and, knowing of our present financial plight, scooted out of her chair and followed after me, no questions asked.

“Now, Mr. Singleton,” I said as I re-entered on the second swing of the door, “if you’ll just follow me.” I led the way through our little house-office to the only private room in the building, other than the bathroom and kitchen, that is.

As soon as I had him inside, I closed the door and indicated a chair opposite my desk. “Please have a seat,” I said in my most professional manner as I circled around to my own. Plopping down, I crossed my legs, folded my hands, and said with deepest sincerity, “Now tell me. Exactly what is it that you’d like me to do?”

I peered across my orderly desk at the man, my eyes meeting his, and waited while he took a deep breath before he answered.

“Did you read the article in this morning’s Chronicle?'’

“Yes. About the third woman who was murdered? Yes, I did.” It suddenly came to me why his name rang a bell. He was the employer of the recently departed woman.

“Her name was Doris. She worked for me for about a year—just like it said in the paper. And I want to know who killed her.”

“You want me to try and find out?” I asked in a tone of voice that I hoped wasn’t filled with incredulity.

“Yeah, ’cause I don’t think the cops will find out who did it.”

My adrenaline was pumping. “Mr. Singleton, if I recall the article correctly, the police are investigating the possibility of Miss Jones’s death being the act of a serial killer. Should that prove to be true, the killer would be a person with no real motive, no vendetta, kind of like a random killer.”

“They’re wrong.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I feel it in my gut.”

It was a rather distasteful way of phrasing it, but as good as any.

“You’d have to know Doris. Know the way she was. It couldn’t have been the same guy. She wouldn’t have let just anyone in her apartment.”

“Is that what they’re saying? That she let someone in and whoever it was killed her?”

“Yeah. They think whoever did it has been posing as a repairman or something, but Doris wouldn’t have let ’em in, at least not without checking with me first.”

“There’s no sign of a forced entry?”

“No none. Will you take the case?”

I hesitated while my brain worked ninety-to-nothing on a decision, my judgment clouded with dollar signs. Should I admit my inadequacies to the man? If I told him a little about myself, would he go away? How honest should I be in my hour of need? Real honest, I decided. I couldn’t live with myself if I misled a person. I mean in a major way. I took a deep, regretful breath before answering.

“I don’t know, Mr. Singleton. Actually, you see, I’m really not a real investigator—not that kind anyway. I could do the work, don’t get me wrong, but what I mean is I’m not licensed for that. I mean, I am licensed for it. I have a Class A license, but it’s for my experience in investigating child abuse and stuff.” And I wanted to add, “and I’m really not into serial killings right now, Mr. Singleton, especially when the killer is doing away with women my age,” but I didn’t.

“I know. I checked you out.”

“You did?” Sigh of relief.

“Yeah. I know all about you. And I like what I heard.”

Flattery will get you everywhere. “Then you know my background, that I do home studies for adoptions, and social studies for child custody cases, and things like that.”

“Yeah, and I know you used to be a probation officer, and a social worker, and that you studied criminology in college, and that sometimes you do investigations for lawyers around Houston.”

My curiosity was aroused. I wondered how he knew so much about me. Would he tell me in time? I certainly wasn’t going to exhibit poor taste by inquiring. “Mr. Singleton, what I do for lawyers—it isn’t real investigation stuff. I talk to witnesses and sketch scenes for use in court, and I serve legal papers, but I don’t try to find out who committed an offense. I do the background of a case when a lawyer is preparing for trial and needs information so that he or she can defend a client.”

“It’s the same thing,” he said. “I know you can do it. I got faith in you.”

I was wary of the job. Even if the man did have enough money to pay me a decent wage, he was asking me to look into a case while there was an active police investigation. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. I was never one to court trouble. Well not too much trouble anyway.

I shook my head. “I appreciate your comments, Mr. Singleton, but why don’t you let the police do their job first. Then, if they can’t find out after a while who did it, I’ll be glad to look into it for you.” I pushed back my chair and stood up. I hated to end the interview, but I wasn’t sure I was qualified to take on such a serious case. I also didn’t want to tackle with HPD.

“C’mon, Miss Davis. You gotta help me. I know what the cops think, and they’re wrong. I know she wasn’t killed by no serial killer.” His fingers gripped the edge of my desk as he leaned toward my face. “Please.”

The desperation in his voice echoed throughout the room, taking me by surprise. Up until that point, I figured there was some angle to his request or that he thought I’d work cheap. Either way, I hadn’t liked it. I’d felt uneasy. But now I sensed an urgency in him. Maybe there was something I didn’t understand. I looked into his eyes again and saw an expression I took to be one of anguish. I wondered what Doris was to him anyway. So I asked him. “What was Doris Jones to you anyway?”

The big man lowered his eyes, looking down at his hands as if studying the size and shape of his fingernails. He didn’t answer me.

“Well?” Suspicion is my middle name.

“Nothin’. She just worked for me, that’s all.”

“I suspect from your behavior that it was a little more than that,” I told him as I took my seat again.

He raised his head and looked at me, his hands now twisting the newspaper into a tight roll. There was too much moisture in his eyes, and his mouth turned down at the sides. I could tell that it was hard for someone like him to talk about his feelings.

“She was something special, Doris was,” he said at last. His voice was husky.

The room grew still and silent as I groped for words with which to ease his pain. His feelings for the woman were plain without his having to express them verbally.

“Will you tell me about her?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper in the quiet of the room.

He shifted around in his chair before answering, his eyes darting from object to object. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Doris was a mystery to me.”

Curious now, I asked, “What do you mean, ‘a mystery’? A real mystery or was it just that she was a woman?”

“A real mystery,” he said, and leaned forward to get closer to me. “She came out of nowhere last year and asked me for a job. She was quiet and sort of, well, elegant. I thought she’d add some class to the joint so I hired her even though I could tell she’d never waited tables before—she wasn’t the type.”

“Define ‘quiet and elegant.’”

“Just what I said.” He perked up. “She was always real quiet, never talked much to anyone, kept to herself. Not to say that she didn’t do a good job. She was great. Best waitress The Rex Cafe ever had. She was always real polite to the customers, no matter what, and sometimes at night we get a real rough crowd in there. She could handle them; killed them with kindness, she did.”

I must confess. He had me on a hook now and was reeling me in. Not to say that I was any more qualified than I was a few minutes earlier, but I was definitely interested. “It sounds like she was a very good worker,” I commented, somewhat at a loss for an appropriate response.

“That’s not the half of it.” He had his elbows propped upon the front of my desk now, leaning toward me to tell me the story of Doris Jones. “The way she spoke, it was different. She talked like she had been somebody, like she had a real education. Kinda like you do. Sometimes she’d use big words that I didn’t understand. I’d go look them up at night, only she didn’t know it. But she didn’t use ’em on purpose to make us feel stupid or nothin’; it was just like they’d slip out when she wasn’t thinking about what she was saying. She’d try to cover up and change what she said so that we knew what she meant. She’d apologize and tell me that she was reading a lot of books and couldn’t help it if she accidently learned some of the words, but I could tell that she was used to talking that way and having people understand what she said. You know what I mean?”

I nodded. “Where did she come from?”

“I dunno. Like I said, she was a mystery. I asked her more than once, but she only said something about being from north Texas and let it go at that. I knew her almost a whole year and can’t tell you much more than I already have.”

“What about her friends?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t have any. Just us—the people she worked with at The Rex.”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Singleton, what I think you need is a real detective. Why don’t you go to Leo Barker or somebody? Some of those guys truly know the business and could probably help you find out about her.” I hated to send him out to someone else, much as I needed the money, but he really did need somebody with more criminal experience, not little old me.

He shook his head again. “Leo Barker won’t take the case. I already went to him yesterday.”

I grimaced as my ego took a nosedive. “Well, there are others whose skills are equal to Leo’s.”

His head wagged from side-to-side. “No one’ll touch it. They think I’m crazy. Actually, I think Leo would’ve except he’s going on vacation for a couple of weeks and he said his wife would kill him if he didn’t go this time. I don’t want to wait no two weeks. The others, well, they had different excuses, but I could tell what they thought.”

I had lost some of my sympathy for the man. I mean—it was quite a blow that I was at the end of a long list. I would have felt a good deal better had he not told me. But then, damn it all, I shouldn’t have asked.

“Please, Miss Davis.”

I was befuddled about the thing. In a quandary. Why shouldn’t I refuse like the others? If they thought he wasn’t all there upstairs, why should I think any differently?

Why? Because I needed the money.

Even so, I was still hesitant. “I don’t know, Mr. Singleton. I’m sure the police are doing all they can to solve this thing.”

“I’m telling you it’s not part of the same case. It can’t be. Doris knew better than to open the door to somebody off the street. Hell, the way she acted, she never even wanted to let us in there, much less some stranger.”

“But what if it was some stranger? The serial killer. You’d be paying for work that will be done by the police for free.” I watched his face, hoping for a positive reaction.

“I don’t care, Miss Davis. I have to have the answer. She was like a riddle. Even if a serial killer did do it, I still won’t have the answer to Doris Jones. I want to know who she was. Could you just look into that part of it for me? Could you just help me find out who she was? I’ll pay you. I have money saved ’cause I don’t have a family or nobody to spend it on. I can pay you. At least look into it. You never know what you’ll find. Please. I’m asking you. Maybe as a woman you’ll be better anyway. Maybe you could unravel Doris’s life.”

So what else could I do? I mean, really? I needed the money. It would be better than sitting around the office waiting for a home study. I could at least look into it for the man; maybe spend a few days talking to people, snooping around. It might even be fun. I was still hesitant. I’m not sure why. My ego? No. Money is much more important. I guess I was a little scared because of the facts. But honestly, I have to admit it was interesting. The mystery woman. And what if it turned out to be more than interesting? I might be able to make a name for myself. This might be the beginning of something. It could be my big break. I might become a real investigator: a criminal investigator.

So what was I waiting for?

I was trying to decide how much to charge for snooping around for a few days.

“I’d have to charge you thirty-five an hour plus expenses,” I said, cringing internally as I anticipated that he’d change his mind.

As I looked on, he stood up, dug his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of bills. He peeled a bunch off and laid them on the desk in front of me. “Here’s seven hundred. It’s Wednesday, and that should cover the rest of the week. Let me know if you need more.”

I was simply astonished. He must have really loved her. Maybe I should have quoted a higher hourly rate. “I’m not promising you anything, you understand, Mr. Singleton. I’ll look into it for you. I’ll ask around a little and see what I can come up with that will convince you that her death was part of a serial killing. I’ll check on her background. I can’t guarantee anything more than that.”

A huge grin spread across his face. “It’s a start, Miss Davis,” he said. Then, much to my surprise—and before I knew what was happening—he came around my desk and gave me a big wet smack on the cheek, squeezed my shoulders, and was gone.