On Borrowed Crime Read online

  I stared into my bloodshot blue eyes. Who are you?

  I blinked the tears away and got out of the car. Uncle Calvin went to retrieve the rolling bag containing the minimum number of essentials such as makeup, skin care, and a few articles of clothing from the trunk. I hadn’t even bothered packing much in the wardrobe department. Mother would have my dresser, chest of drawers, and closet fully stocked.

  Every fiber of my being hated bringing my troubles to my parents’ front porch. Mother needed peace. I stared at the house; the red and yellow mums were placed on either side of the front door and lined the staircase. The rocking chair cushions matched the mums—ideal for the season.

  “You ready?”

  I nodded, squared my shoulders, and held my head high.

  He gave me a little pat on the back. “It’ll be alright.”

  I should feel comforted. Why the dread?

  When trouble brewed, the Moody household held an undertone of something I couldn’t precisely identify. Sometimes it felt like a heaviness that threatened to pull everything crashing down around us. Mother fought hard to make everything perfect, as if her life depended on it. She managed to orchestrate our lives to appear drama-free. She wouldn’t be happy about this.

  The front door swung open before we made it onto the porch. Mother must have ESP, sensing the scandalous disturbance in the air. In the South, behind closed doors, every family had their secrets, and no one was interested in airing their dirty laundry to the world.

  She didn’t even look at me. Her round eyes narrowed and zeroed in on her brother. And my sturdy, six-foot, two-hundred-plus-pound uncle slightly withered.

  Mother had that effect on people. “Calvin, what have you involved my daughter in?”

  Uncle Calvin scratched his salt-and-pepper-goateed chin. I was guessing he needed a minute to dredge up enough courage to face his older sister.

  “Now, Frances, don’t get riled up. The girl’s been through an ordeal.”

  “If she has, I place the blame entirely on you.” Mother’s tone was low and controlled. “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing with wagging tongues eager to discuss my daughter’s involvement in something ghastly.”

  “Please stop talking about me like I’m not even here.” Relegated in a matter of moments from an independent woman to an indignant sixteen-year-old child.

  “Stop being melodramatic and calm down, young lady.” Mother shook her head.

  “Melodramatic? My friend Carol was dead and in a suitcase!” I immediately lowered my tone. “In a suitcase in my house, Mother.”

  Mother flinched. Whatever she’d heard about what transpired at my place left out that detail. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me inside and pushed on the door.

  Calvin’s boot forced it open as he cleared his throat. “May I come inside too?” He’d be allowed inside now without too much afront from Mother. She had no desire to continue this discussion on the front porch.

  Mother turned around as if seeing Uncle Calvin for the first time. “Yes, of course. I … um, I apologize, Calvin.” Mother stepped aside as Gran came hurrying down the hallway.

  She was swinging her arms, her pointy elbows rising high as she puffed. “This isn’t some joke, is it?” She panted as if she’d taken the stairs.

  I shook my head; my eyes were wide and unblinking.

  “Oh my word! Is it true?” There was a twinkle in Gran’s eyes. “Selma Townsends’s granddaughter lives in your complex. She said there were cops everywhere, and they had your townhouse under surveillance with drug-sniffin’ dogs and everything! Oh, this is exciting.”

  Seeing her reaction made the butterflies calm a little.

  Mother glanced heavenward as if to say, “Why me, sweet Jesus?” before closing the door. She fiddled with her pearls rapidly.

  “Gran.” I embraced her, being careful to avoid her sharp edges. “Your sources didn’t quite get their facts straight.”

  “But it was a crime scene? And someone died?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I released her, and she searched my face.

  Her smile faded. “You’re okay, right? You weren’t in any imminent danger, were you, child?”

  “No, ma’am. Shaken up, but fine.”

  “Tough little cookie. You get that from me. We spit in the eye of danger.” She pinched my nose and winked. “You’ll have another dynamite story to tell for years to come.”

  “I’m not sure I want to tell this story, Gran. It was awful.” I swallowed and fought to keep my lip from quivering.

  “Calvin, explain.” Mother reached out and took my hand, clutching it to her chest.

  Gran gave her daughter-in-law a pitying expression.

  “Don’t you want James to hear this? It might be easier to tell everyone at once. The police might also come by here to speak with her again.” Calvin had fallen back into his usual demeanor. All business.

  He glanced around as if expecting Daddy to appear. Truthfully, I had too.

  “He’s at the hospital. I’ll relay the information.” Mother wrapped her other hand around mine.

  Calvin explained the events in the detached way of his, facts only. I watched the faces of the two most important women in my family. Mother and Gran’s faces held two utterly different expressions. Mother looked horrified, and Gran appeared to be wrestling with warring emotions.

  Gran took my other hand, and I was pulled in two directions. “Now tell us from your perspective. Was it awful? Scary? Gruesome?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes.”

  “That sounds dreadful. Maybe I should move in with you, Lyla. I’m a dead-eye with my Smith and Wesson. I’ll protect you.” Her eyes glinted hopefully.

  A nervous half laugh escaped my lips.

  “Daisy, please,” Mother said demurely.

  My flustered mother met my gaze. “It could have been you instead of that poor woman. Working in this dangerous field and reading about murders with that dead club. This isn’t the life for a respectable young lady. You can only push your luck so far. You’re done working for your uncle, Lyla Jane Moody. Do you understand me?”

  “I love you, Mother, but this isn’t your decision.”

  Gran bit her lip, and Mother’s face turned an unhealthy shade of puce.

  “Calm down, Franny,” Calvin placated.

  Mother sent him her worst glare. “Thank you for seeing her home, but I must insist you respect my wishes for a change. My child is my business. You aren’t the boss here. We aren’t children any longer.” My ears perked at the reference to their being children. The topic had historically been taboo in our home.

  “Franny, let’s not do this now.” Uncle Calvin rubbed the nape of his neck.

  “May I speak to you for a moment alone, please?” Mother said through clenched teeth, and my mouth fell open.

  “Yeah, sure, Franny. Sure.” No one ever called her Franny except Uncle Calvin, and usually she corrected him. This time she hadn’t batted an eye. My mother and uncle had an unusual relationship. Something tragic had happened during their childhood, and neither felt comfortable discussing it with me. It’d uniquely bonded them.

  Mother kissed my cheek before releasing my hand. She was not the most affectionate woman in the world, and her behavior alarmed me. She’d been a doting parent and provided me with the best of everything. She’d not approved effusive behavior of the other parents in our circle. She’d insisted they made their children weak. Me she wanted unbreakable.

  “I bet you need some cake. Frances bought a great big chocolate one.” Gran wrapped an arm around my waist; the top of her head rested against my shoulder.

  Mother and Uncle Calvin excused themselves. The door to the living room closed.

  The kitchen smelled homey, like buttery pastry and sugary comfort. My kitchen never had such aromas unless I ordered in or Melanie brought cookies over from her shop. Now, it smelled like decomposition. A chill ran up my spine.

  “Unburden yourself, darlin’. It’s not healthy to keep it bo
ttled up.” She patted a stool.

  “I can honestly say it was the worst moment of my life.” I took a seat on one of the six antique, white, Provencal Grapes swivel barstools as Gran picked up the cake plate and placed it on the island.

  “Was the cake bought for a special occasion?” I asked.

  Gran shrugged and took the dome off the shiny chocolate cake. She took out two dessert plates and sliced giant hunks, then handed me a fork.

  “Your mother was going to take this to some ladies’ club. But desperate times …” She dug into her massive piece, taking a huge bite.

  “Mother’s not going to like this.” The guilt for distressing my mother caused me to hold back as Gran encouraged me to dig in.

  “Frances won’t be going to the ladies’ club after all this.” She waved her hand around, and a little icing fell from her fork. “Whoops.”

  She began to rise, and I put a hand on her shoulder. “Let me.” I got a napkin and cleaned up after her.

  “I heard this all happened after you found out about Kevin too?”

  I dropped the napkin in the trash, sat back down on the stool, and sliced into the delicate crumb, loading my fork. My lips closed around the smooth, creamy chocolate with a delicious raspberry filling, and for a second it was bliss. I swallowed. “Yeah. It’s been the worst twenty-four hours of my life. Not only did I find out that Ellen”—my lip curled and Gran turned up her nose—“is canoodling with my ex, which on any other day would be a nightmare, but it’s also no way comparable to finding your friend’s body stuffed inside a suitcase. Melanie and I were petrified. And the smell, Gran.” I put my fork on the island. I tried hard not to see her distorted body.

  “I wonder who did it?” Gran tore her piece of cake apart like a small child as she hunted for more raspberry filling.

  Goose bumps traveled up my flesh as I wondered along with her.

  Gran’s features scrunched up in thought. “Could be some sordid love affair gone wrong. Like maybe the lover turned out to be some horrible psycho killer.” Gran shoveled a giant bite into her mouth. “What about that guy you saw her with the other day?”

  I met her curious gaze. “I just don’t know.” A flash of the passenger with his cap pulled down over his eyes came to me. I grasped at the memory, hoping to recall more. To remember something—anything—that would help. I put my hand over my stomach, now jumpy with nerves. Carol’s red face was clear in my mind.

  “What if she didn’t know the man?” If I’d only coaxed my friend from the car at the Fast Trip, she might be alive today.

  “Hmm. Maybe,” Gran said around a mouthful. “We should sneak into the office and have another gander at her file.” Chocolate frosting peeked from the corner of her mouth.

  I motioned to her, and she wiped it away with her fingers.

  In all the commotion, I’d completely forgotten about Gran’s revelation about Carol’s treatment with Daddy. I’d not mentioned it to Calvin or Officer Taylor.

  “Maybe we should just let Daddy speak with the police.” I picked my fork back up and forced another bite before deciding the cake and the nerves weren’t getting along.

  Mother came into the kitchen without saying a word about us indulging in the cake. She handed Gran and me each a proper napkin. As I unfolded the embroidered cloth and placed it in my lap, my mother poured herself a glass of wine and sipped. I spied a slight tremor in her hand holding the glass as she tilted her head back and focused on the recessed lighting. A large lump of trepidation developed in the back of my throat.

  “I’m sorry I spoke so harshly to you earlier,” I whispered, not wanting to be at odds with her. Life was too short.

  Mother’s gaze flittered to me, and she blinked a few times, almost as if she were struggling to focus. She stood in front of me, cupped my face in her hand, and the most peculiar expression spread across her face.

  “She’s okay, Frances, dear.” Gran rubbed my back. “She’s tough as nails.”

  Mother kept staring as she stroked my jawline with her thumb. She opened her mouth a few times to speak, yet nothing emerged.

  She’s opening up to me.

  “You look pale, dear. A little lipstick could help.”

  I blinked up at her, stunned. “What?”

  Her hand dropped, and she took a step back. “A woman’s secret weapon is her lip color. You know that.”

  “Really, Mother? That’s what you want to discuss now? Makeup?”

  She sipped again and then sighed.

  “Doesn’t something like this make you take stock of your life? All the petty things, like hair, cosmetics, and fashion, are trivial in retrospect. My friend died. Died! Why aren’t we discussing that?”

  Mother looked genuinely stunned. “Well, forgive me for raising you to care about yourself.”

  “That’s not what she meant, Frances. She wants to talk to you about her pain.” Gran’s gaze was soft and full of understanding.

  Mother turned her head away, wrapping an arm across her rib cage, and propped her elbow on her wrist as she sipped more wine. The little wrinkle deepened between her brows.

  I reached out and touched her arm. “Please sit down. I’m not a child any longer. We can discuss your stresses. I hate that this triggered a reaction. I know how important peace is for you.”

  She unfolded her arms as her eyes flashed hot. “I won’t make you relive the ordeal and exhaust you further by having you describe the events again. Sometimes I think therapy is nonsense. Nothing good comes from reliving traumatic events.”

  I wouldn’t argue with her; she was well aware of how my father and I heartily disagreed.

  “And nothing was triggered, child. All this proves is you have poor judgment.”

  “Poor judgment? That has nothing to do with what happened. I found Carol deceased. You’re deflecting.” I swallowed as I recalled the body.

  “You’re too obsessed with death.” Her tone matched her eyes, hot and challenging. “I blame your father for always indulging you when you were a child. I should have never listened to him when he insisted this fascination would pass. You’re a bright beautiful girl with everything going for you. Why tempt fate?”

  “Tempt fate? What does that mean?” Am I in the Twilight Zone? Why am I here? “I should’ve stayed with Melanie.”

  “Hush that talk,” Gran said. “You’re always welcome here at home. Right, Frances?”

  “That goes without saying,” Mother huffed, and stared into her glass. “You should probably get some rest now.” She let out a long sigh as she left the room.

  “Why won’t she ever open up to me? Why must she always be so guarded?” I propped my elbows on the counter and buried my face in my hands.

  “Frances comes from an era when you just lived with the thorn in your side. You find a way to plod along and not focus on the trouble. She does the best she can. Let’s have some wine, sugar.”

  “Wine sounds delicious.” I rubbed my finger across the smooth, cold surface of the granite. “I can understand the differences between the generations. At least it’s some form of an explanation.”

  My grandmother struggled with the corkscrew. I opened my hands, and she passed the bottle over. Gran placed two crystal glasses in front of me. I twisted until it made a little pop sound, and then poured.

  Mm, we always had the best wine in this house—a consolation.

  Chapter Five

  Hushed whispers woke me. I flung myself upright, gripping the damp sheets in my fists. My heart pounded as I scanned the room in the darkness. The creaking of footsteps against the floor sent me racing from the bed. Carol’s bloated face burned in my brain.

  “Quiet, James.” Mother’s voice brought me back to the present.

  I relaxed a minuscule amount. I squinted at the clock on the bedside table—nearly two. Gran and I had stayed up till midnight, waiting on him. If my grandmother’s memory could be trusted, she’d learned from my friends’ file that Carol suffered from paranoia and a deep, overwhelm
ing fear of dying and her flesh rotting away.

  More whispers brought me from my reverie. I crept to the closed door, pressing my ear against the wood.

  “She’s asleep? In her room?”

  “Honestly, James, where else would she be in the middle of the night.” From the sound of it, Mother’s annoyance had increased instead of abating.

  “How did she seem?” Daddy didn’t sound bothered by Mother’s aggravated tone, and I mused on how he never did.

  “Oh, you know Lyla. She doesn’t react as a normal young woman would.”

  What does that mean?

  “I think she needs a new group of friends,” my mother continued. “I’ve never liked her association with the book club. She was doing so much better before she took up with them. Maybe we should …” Their voices became lost behind their bedroom door, which closed with a clunk.

  Maybe they should what? What could they possibly do? Part of me wanted to confront them tonight. The other part decided nothing productive would come from such behavior. I crawled back into bed, my thoughts in a tumult. Their whispered concerns reminded me of days gone by.

  I’ve always had a fascination with murder and crime, unsolved crimes in particular. And yes, Jane Doe cases were a point of major interest to me. My “obsession,” as Mother referred to it, had landed me in therapy—Daddy’s idea—as a late teen, and it continued into my early twenties. Despite my insistence that many of the world shared my enthusiasm, and my calling Mother’s attention to the multitude of programs centered around crime detection, she hadn’t relented. My compliance to evaluate my interest through therapeutic sessions did nothing to alter her perception. She claimed—and I quote—“Lyla’s fixation with such ghoulish things is tantamount to thanatophobia.” Nothing could have been further from the truth.