It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder Read online

  It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder

  A Cassie O'Malley Mystery

  By Jeff Markowitz

  Published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital

  Copyright 2011 by Jeff Markowitz

  Cover Design by David Dodd

  LICENSE NOTES:

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your vendor of choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Dedication

  To my son Josh, who reads Ovid and Cicero, Dickens and Dostoyevsky,

  but who still finds time to enjoy the Cassie O'Malley Mysteries.

  Acknowledgements

  I'd like to thank the many authors and editors, booksellers and librarians, readers, bloggers and friends who have helped to make me a better writer. I'd especially like to thank my wife, Carol, who read the earliest version of the manuscript and told me which parts worked and which parts didn't. Hopefully I was paying attention.

  Turkey and Gravy Soda

  Thursday morning, Tommy awoke alone in his studio apartment and listened to his telephone ring. He was dreaming that the phone was ringing and then gradually he realized that it really was ringing. It was a cheap phone, with a cheap ring, more buzz than ring, and it was persistent. He swatted at the phone and cursed, knowing that she would not give up. It would not be his girlfriend on the line (thank God for that). His girlfriend, Bobbie, was angry and no longer talking to him. Tommy had no doubt who was on the line. Weary, after too few hours of sleep, Tommy picked up the receiver.

  "What do you want Greta?"

  "How do you know it's me?" Greta growled in his ear.

  "Am I wrong?" Tommy sighed. "What do you want?"

  Greta's laugh was throaty and phlegmatic, too many cigarettes, too many meds. "What do I—grr—want? What I want is—grr—a vacation in Maui, a Lexus, a . . ."

  Tommy interrupted Greta's wish list. "My bad, Greta. I shouldn't have asked. We both know I don't give a damn what you want. But that's not why you called. Right?"

  "No, that's—grr—not why I called."

  "So why did you call me at . . ." Tommy looked at his alarm clock and groaned, "Seven-thirty? Surely not to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving."

  Greta got to the point. "You're way behind in your damn child support payments."

  "I'm doing the best I . . ."

  Greta was not in the mood. "Grr—you're not doing shit and you know it."

  "Okay Greta. Let's say you're right. I'm a deadbeat dad. I'm not gonna argue the point. So what do you say we skip over the general bullshit and you tell me why you've chosen this particular morning to bust my balls, okay?"

  "Tommy Junior is marching in the parade today," Greta said. "I called—grr—to remind you to turn on your television."

  "Shit, Greta. I know that. I'll be watching." Looking for a piece of paper, Tommy scribbled a reminder on the palm of his right hand.

  "And if they get a shot of his feet on TV, I want you to notice he's the only kid in the band wearing sneakers. You got that Tommy? Your son needs band shoes. Send me a damn check." Greta slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

  Tommy hung up the phone just in time to hear the knocking at his front door. Neither especially loud nor insistent, Tommy recognized the deliberate style of the Macks. He opened the door slowly, and found two men just outside the door, crowding out Tommy's view of the world beyond. The men were big. Huge. Refrigerators in blue pinstripes and Italian sunglasses. Tommy had fallen behind in his payments.

  The Macks were a family business, father and son loan sharks and freelance enforcers. Big Mack was approaching sixty from the wrong side. Part Irishman, part Choctaw Indian, at six foot tall, two eighty, he was built like the proverbial brick shithouse and, even now, approaching retirement, remained the muscle of the team. Big Mack loved to hit.

  Little Mack was his youngest, and only living, son. The three older boys all died in combat—Ernie in Nam, Billy in Iraq and Eddie in a hooker's bed in the Ironbound section of Newark. Little Mack had outgrown his father by the time he was fifteen. In his early thirties, he was six-six and weighed three forty-five. Despite his size, Little Mack's role, until his father retired, was to be the mouthpiece.

  Tommy understood why the Macks were at his door early on a Thanksgiving morning. Without waiting, Tommy rolled into action.

  "Heh, heh, it's the Macks. My two favorite all-beef Paddies. Long time no see boys. How the hell are ya? Still hittin' the special sauce?"

  Little Mack stepped inside and grunted a terse, "Fuck you, Tommy." Big Mack merely nodded and rubbed his knuckles.

  "Look, boys," Tommy said, "it's great to see ya, and I'd love to shoot the shit with a coupla sparkling wits like yourselves, but it's Thanksgiving. I ain't got time for a Mack attack today."

  "Hold your water, Tommy. This ain't gonna take long." Little Mack spoke softly, his voice a hoarse whisper. His father, standing in the doorway, filling the doorway, rubbed his hands impatiently.

  "My dad ain't real happy with you, Tommy. You let him down. You let us down. You were supposed to make a payment last week. Here it is Thursday, and you still ain't made good on the debt."

  Tommy was ready with an answer. He only hoped the Macks were in a Thanksgiving sort of mood. "Here's the thing, boys. I got a job." Big Mack barely moved, but Tommy saw, in the tilt of his head, that Big Mack was impressed.

  "Yeah, I start work tomorrow."

  Little Mack asked, "Who's the numbnuts what hired you Tommy?"

  And Tommy said, "I got a job at the mall." When Little Mack made no comment, Tommy explained. "Startin' next week, I can make a payment every week. Every week," he repeated for emphasis.

  Little Mack barely moved his lips. "We'll be in touch." Big Mack nodded, and with that, the Macks were gone.

  Tommy closed the door.

  Tommy mentally made a list of the things he was thankful for this year.

  His ex-wife was hassling him for money he did not have, but she would just have to wait her turn. Tommy owed money all over town. Greta was annoying, but she wasn't especially dangerous. On the other hand, Tommy's bookie was less annoying than Greta, but capable of causing him real pain. And as bad as the Macks could be, neither measured up to the danger that was his current girlfriend. Bobbie was withholding sex until he completed anger management class. And how does that make you feel?, they asked him that first night in class. Like hittin' something, he told them. His health was bad in indeterminate ways and his medical coverage had been cancelled. His bank account was a joke. Tommy was six months behind in child support. The state of New Jersey had suspended his driver's license. At least he had a job at the mall, now that the holiday was here.

  Tommy looked at the bottle of turkey and gravy soda in the fridge and shuddered at the possibilities. He put a Swanson Hungry Man turkey dinner in the microwave and turned on the television, flipping back and forth between the parade and ESPN. He tried to put a bet down on the Detroit Lions game, but his bookie had cut him off. Happy Thanksgiving.

  His boy, Tommy Junior, fifteen and a sophomore in high school, was somewhere in the long line of marching bands in the Macy's parade. Tommy had forgotten about the parade until his ex-wife called. A trombone should be easy to spot, he told himself, but Tommy could not find Tommy Junior on TV that morning. He did, however, see a couple of decent marching bands and all the really good balloons . . . Kermit the Frog, SpongeBob SquarePants, Garfield, Al Roker.

  And, of course, at the end of the parade, Tommy watched Santa Claus arrive at Herald Square. Santa's arrival marked the official start of the Christmas season, a month of peace, of brotherhood, of good will, and, for Tommy, a month to show his girlfriend he could manage his anger, to show the Macks he could pay his debts thanks to a month working as a department store Santa at the Mall of New Jersey.

  Tommy watched the football games. With no action on the games, he found that football did not hold his interest anymore. He re-considered the bottle of turkey and gravy soda, mixing it, one part soda and two parts Jack Daniels. Tommy lit a Newport and fell asleep in front of the television.

  Big-Ass Cigar

  "You missed another meeting, O'Malley." Everything the new owner-slash-editor of the recently re-titled Jersey Knews Magazine knew about publishing he learned at the movies. In the movies, the editor always called his writers by their last name. Cassie O'Malley pictured Jack Cambrian on the other end of the phone . . . his rumpled white shirt, the top button unbuttoned, tie loose at the neck, suspenders, wide-brimmed fedora, and Arturo Fuente maduro. Jack Cambrian was never without his big-ass cigar.

  Cassie cupped her hand over the telephone receiver to muffle the sound. "Asshole."

  "What was that O'Malley? I can't hear you."

&nb
sp; Cassie removed her hand and sighed. "Do we really have to do this again? Can't we just agree to disagree? You know I don't come to staff meetings."

  Jack Cambrian snorted. "Listen to me, O'Malley," he said, not unkindly, "it's been a year already since I bought the Knews, and I'm getting pretty tired of you telling me how Morris used to do things. Morris is gone. It's time for you to accept that O'Malley."

  Cassie bit her tongue. She couldn't accept that Morris had sold her magazine. To Cassie, never mind who owned the Jersey Knews, it was her magazine. Morris, at least, had been good at the job. Cassie waited for the inevitable question. Jack Cambrian didn't disappoint. "Do you want to write for my magazine?"

  Cassie had been asking herself that very question. It had been a full year, and Cassie still couldn't find common ground with her new boss. "Yes, Mr. Cambrian."

  "So you'll start coming to the meetings?"

  "Yes, boss."

  She could see Jack Cambrian smile through the receiver. "You don't like me very much, do you, O'Malley?" he asked.

  Cassie considered the question carefully before responding. Until Morris sold the magazine, there were two things Cassie could count on. One, that her personal life was a disaster. Two, that her job was a refuge from that disaster. Now that Jack Cambrian owned the magazine, there was only one thing on which Cassie could count. She poured an inch of Tullamore Dew into her coffee cup before responding. "To be honest, I don't know you well enough to like you or dislike you, sir. Maybe, if you took the time to explain what you're trying to do with the magazine, I would be more enthusiastic."

  "Maybe if you came to the damn meetings . . ." Jack Cambrian immediately regretted his answer. Once upon a time, Cassie O'Malley had brought readers to the magazine. She could do it again. "I'll have to give that some thought, O'Malley."

  Jack Cambrian debated how much more he wanted to say. "When I bought the magazine, Morris asked me to be patient with you . . . he told me you'd just come through a bad time. Well, O'Malley, it's been a year. You know what I think? I think we've both got some decisions to make. Me . . . I've gotta decide how much longer to carry you, waiting for you to produce. Your decisions, if you don't mind my telling you this, are a lot bigger. You're still a young woman. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life hiding in your condo, in an old pair of sweats, nursing a shot of Irish whiskey?"

  Cassie wondered how Jack Cambrian knew. She put down her coffee cup of whiskey. There was an awkward moment of silence, the phone and other connections tenuous.

  Cassie hated to have to ask. "So what's my story assignment?"

  "The mall, O'Malley, the mall at Christmastime." Jack Cambrian paused, almost disappointed when Cassie voiced no objection to the crummy assignment. "Oh, and by the way," Jack Cambrian added by way of good-bye, "Happy Thanksgiving."

  The Scarlet Letter

  Mayor Harbrough peeked in the window of her stainless steel oven at the twenty-pound golden-brown butterball turkey resting comfortably inside. Turning to her guests, Cheyenne announced with thinly disguised pride, "It's almost done. Can I freshen anyone's drink?

  Silently, Cassie handed Cheyenne her glass. Cheyenne dumped the melting ice cubes and poured Cassie a new Jameson's and rocks. Cheyenne noticed that the whiskey level inside the bottle of Jameson's was diminishing rapidly. She was not alarmed—Cheyenne had long known Cassie to be a heavy drinker—but she was disturbed that Cassie's drinking of late seemed to be so . . . Cheyenne searched for the right word . . . so unproductive. Cassie seemed no more drunk than when she had arrived for Thanksgiving dinner with the mayor. Neither drunker, nor happier, as though the Irish whiskey were simply a way to mark time. With a fresh drink in hand, Cassie wandered down the hall to check the score of the Cowboys game.

  Cheyenne was grateful for the private moment with her dad. Cheyenne's dad, the Harbrough in Harbrough and Daughter Property Development Inc., was nursing a Ketel One martini, dry with a twist. He waited until Cassie left the kitchen. "Did you call your mother? Is she coming?"

  "Mom should be here any minute now." Cheyenne didn't understand anything about her parents' separation. She didn't understand it when her mother had announced that her marriage of near forty years had been a mistake. And she certainly didn't understand why her father had insisted that Cheyenne invite them both for Thanksgiving.

  Stephen Harbrough tried yet again to explain it to his daughter. "I have loved your mother for four decades, but I have not always honored that love. You have to tend to love or one day, you wake up and realize that your wife of forty years is a stranger. There's a difference between sharing a bed and sharing a life." He shook his head, saddened by his failure. "But we still share a daughter. And we can still share a turkey dinner."

  Cheyenne hugged her father. She turned her attention back to the turkey, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with the kitchen towel.

  Cheyenne heard the front door open. That would be her Mother letting herself in. In another life, the well-endowed Cheyenne Harbrough could have modeled for the painter Rubens. In another life, Cheyenne's mother, Rae, thin as her daughter was plump, had modeled . . . for Andy Warhol.

  "It's me," Rae said, announcing her arrival. "I hope you don't mind, but I brought a date." From behind her, a tall white-haired gentleman with thin lips and a carefully modulated smile introduced himself. "Hello. I'm Charles Meriwether, the third. You may call me Chas."

  Cheyenne kissed her mother and greeted Mr. Meriwether. "Welcome. Please make yourself comfortable while I set another place at the table."

  Cheyenne pushed her chair back from the table and surveyed the scene in her dining room. Twenty pounds of turkey were largely gone. There would be barely enough leftover to make a decent sandwich. The sweet potatoes cooked in cognac were gone, the stuffing gone, the crescent rolls gone, the green beans almandine gone. There was, however, an ample supply of uneaten cranberry. In a town dotted with cranberry bogs, the cranberry was critical to Doah's economy. It might cost her votes in the next election, but Mayor Cheyenne Harbrough was no fan of the cranberry.

  Considering the guest list, Thanksgiving dinner had been remarkably peaceful. At the far end of the table, her father picked absently at a turkey wing. On her left, Cassie refilled her wine glass with a modest merlot, laughing at a private joke. On her right, her mother, the former Mrs. Harbrough, and her date Charles Meriwether the third were arguing quietly.

  "Is everything okay?" Cheyenne asked.

  Mr. Meriwether came straight to the point. "I couldn't help but notice that you didn't say grace tonight."

  Drawing on her considerable mayoral charm, Cheyenne did her best to sound pleasant when she responded. "No."

  "Do you mind if I ask why?"

  Cheyenne wondered what her mother saw in her dinner companion. "You are a guest in my home, Mr. Meriwether . . ." Cheyenne refrained from adding, an uninvited guest. "My reasons are my own and, I mean no disrespect, but they are none of your business."

  Cheyenne's mother stood up suddenly. "Cheyenne! I will not . . . I believe you owe Chas an apology."

  Cheyenne was ready for an argument. She had been ready from the moment her mother had walked in with Mr. Meriwether in tow. And she had been remarkably tolerant, she knew, of her mother's prissy dinner companion.

  Mr. Harbrough watched the storm gathering force in his daughter's eyes. "Do you remember high school English, Cheyenne?"

  Cheyenne smiled, knowing immediately what story her father was about to tell.

  Mr. Harbrough continued. "Your class was reading The Scarlet Letter." Mr. Harbrough turned to his ex-wife's dinner date. "In case you're not familiar with the book, Hester Prynne had to wear a scarlet 'A' around her neck, as punishment for committing the sin of adultery so that she might be ostracized by her community."

  Mr. Meriwether bit down on his lower lip, saying nothing.