The
following blog entry is one chapter in “Broken Hearted Killers,” a serial
novella written by 16 Writers Who Kill. To read the complete story, please
begin with Chapter One, published on the WWK blog on February 2, 2023.
By Shari Randall
Helen’s head swam with shock and
indignation. The term “thrown under the bus” surfaced. Why would Iris say such
a thing, and to Renee Peabody, the worst gossip in Oak Haven?
Moments later, there was a knock
and Helen opened the door to the handsome detective.
“I’m Detective Torres, Granite
Falls Police. I understand you knew Iris Vermillion. May I ask you a few
questions?”
Knew. Past tense. Helen
took a steadying breath. “Come in.” As he entered, Renee tailgated behind the
officer. He turned and said firmly, “That will be all, Ms. Peabody,” before
closing the door in her face.
Helen indicated a chair and took
a seat next to Nella on the loveseat. The detective’s tone was businesslike,
but his distractingly warm brown eyes radiated concern. “I’m afraid I have bad
news. Iris Vermillion is dead.”
Helen was surprised by the tears
that sprang to her eyes. She hadn’t considered Iris a good friend, exactly. But
after they’d both moved into Oak Haven, book club had bonded them, and she felt
a keen sting of loss. Nella squeezed her hand.
“When did you see Ms. Vermillion
last?”
Helen gathered her thoughts. “At
about 9 o’clock we walked back from book club at A Likely Story. We said good night
and then she went home to the Anderson Tower, and I came here.”
“Did you see anyone waiting for
Ms. Vermillion? Perhaps a car parked near the entrance?”
Helen racked her brain. Had
someone been lurking in the darkness, watching for Iris? “No. No one.”
“Did anyone see you return to
your condo?”
“No. I don’t think so. Not that
I know of.”
“Iris told another resident if
something happened to her, tell the police to look to Helen Hornsby first. Do
you have any idea why she’d say that?”
Helen shook her head.
“Maybe you’re looking at that
statement the wrong way,” Nella said. “Maybe Iris said to look to Helen if
anything happened to her because she knew Helen was perceptive and would notice
something that would help point to her killer.”
Helen twisted her hands. But
what did I know? What did I see?
Detective Torres’ brows raised, and
his eyes met Nella’s for a moment too long. Helen thought, well, well…
The detective cleared his
throat. “You think Ms. Vermillion had a premonition of danger?”
Nella glanced at Helen, who
shook her head. “The last time I saw her she looked, not happy exactly, but pleased
with herself.”
Detective Torres’ phone buzzed,
and Helen glimpsed the message: MEDICAL EXAMINERS HERE.
“I have to go.” He handed his
card to Helen and stood. “Please call me if you remember anything.” Helen and
Nella followed him to the door. As Helen opened it, Renee sprang back.
The detective sighed. “Mrs.
Peabody, is there anything else you’d like to share?”
“Well, er….”
“You have my card.” He walked to
the elevator, his phone to his ear. Helen felt more than heard Nella’s sigh as
the doors dinged closed on the handsome officer.
Renee scuttled toward her door.
“Just a second.” Helen tugged
Renee’s arm. Not that she’d ordinarily want Renee in her condo, but she had to
know what Renee had seen.
Renee pressed her thin lips
together. They were painted red, vermillion, Helen thought, and realized that
Renee had tried to emulate Iris’s look, right down to her red lipstick. But
Renee lacked Iris’s presence, and the red lipstick was garish against Renee’s
pale skin and creased lips. Helen also recognized in Renee’s erratic breathing
a woman who’d had a shock.
“Come in, Renee,” Helen said. “I’ll
make you a cup of tea,”
Helen gently escorted Renee to
the table in the cozy breakfast nook off her galley kitchen as Nella brewed a mug
of chamomile tea and set it before her. Renee plucked at the collar of her golf
jacket.
“Renee, what happened to Iris?”
Renee wrapped her hands around
the mug. “Iris and I always met for breakfast on Fridays.” Her lips quivered. “I
called when she didn’t show at the Acorn Dining Room. She didn’t answer so I
went to her condo. The door was ajar. I knocked and said, “Hello, Iris?” There
was no answer, so I stepped inside.…”
Helen realized she was holding
her breath as Renee continued.
“I didn’t see her at first. She has that grand
entryway with the chandelier and the marble table with the floral arrangement
on it, right? There was a card and envelope on it. Red, like a valentine.”
“Did you see what was written on
it?” Nella said.
Guilt flashed in Renee’s eyes.
She took a sip of tea, then shook her head. “Of course, I didn’t read it!”
Nella and Helen shared a glance.
Renee was lying.
“But then,” Renee swallowed. “I
saw her in the living room, lying on her white shag rug, wearing her green silk
kimono. Her head,” she whispered, “was bashed in.”
“Did she fall?”
“That’s what I thought. I ran to
her.” Helen remembered that Renee was a retired nurse. “She was cold, nothing I
could do. I called 911. I knew it was murder, right away.”
“How?”
Renee leaned forward. “I saw the
murder weapon! Remember when she won the Citizen of the Year Award for the
community garden?”
Helen exchanged a glance with
Nella. Helen had pasted a smile on her face at the banquet where the award,
shaped like a pine tree on a base of granite, was presented to Iris. Helen and
the rest of the ten-person committee had worked for months while Iris was
snowbirding in Florida, but Iris hogged all the credit.
“The heavy granite base was
bloody,” Renee said. “Someone hit her with it.”
The women sat in silence for a
moment, the only sound the hum of Helen’s refrigerator. Helen pictured the
awards banquet—Iris wearing a revealing black dress and flirting madly with the
award presenter, an older gentleman with still-broad shoulders and a military
bearing. But then Iris flirted with anything in long pants.
Nella said, “They’ll get
fingerprints off the award trophy.”
Renee scoffed. “Everyone knows
to wear gloves. I’ve got to go.” As she stood, she jammed her hand in her
jacket pocket and gasped. “I was so shocked I forgot to tell the detective….”
“What is it?” Helen said.
“When I was leaving Iris’s condo, I stepped on
this.” Renee’s trembling fingers unfolded to reveal a miniature train.
# # #
Shari Randall: Shari Randall is the
author of the Lobster Shack Mystery series from St. Martin's Press. The first
book in the series, CURSES, BOILED AGAIN, won an Agatha Award for Best First
Novel. As Meri Allen, she also writes the new Ice Cream Shop mystery series
featuring a former CIA librarian who uses her unusual skill set to solve
murders in Connecticut's Quiet Corner. Shari lives on the Connecticut shore and
delights in sharing that part of the world with her readers. She is a member of
Sisters in Crime and has published several short stories, the most recent
of which is "A Touch of Magic" in the new Chesapeake Crimes: Magic Is
Murder anthology. When she’s not cooking up a devious plot twist, Shari enjoys
vintage shops, dancing, and visiting her globe-trotting children.
