Janet McNulty - Mellow Summers 03 - An Apple a Day Keeps Murder Away

An Apple A Day Keeps Murder Away

Janet McNulty

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents wither are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or location is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

An Apple A Day Keeps Murder Away

Copyright © 2012 Janet McNulty

Cover Illustration by Robert Henry

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Printed in the United States of America

If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property.
It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Look for Book 4 in the series

About the Author

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Look for the first book in a new series by Janet McNulty:

Sugar And Spice And Not So Nice

Frogs, Snails
, And A Lot Of Wails

—
For my friends who believe in ghosts.

You would think
that after solving a couple of mysteries with the help of a ghost, the next one would be easier. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Summer had arrived and I couldn’t have been more glad. No classes for three months. I had hoped to have a relaxing summer where my only responsibility was my job at the Candle Shoppe. You can probably guess what really happened. Three weeks after vacation began, everything turned upside down.

It all started when
I woke up soaking wet with a knife in my hand. Groggily, I peered at it in the dark. Blood coated it. Panicking, I threw it away. That was when I realized that it wasn’t water that soaked my clothes. It was blood.

I hauled myself to my feet.
Wobbling a bit I managed to make my way to a dresser. I had no idea where I was. I turned to move in another direction and bumped into a TV. My hands rubbed along everything as I felt my way around the room searching for a light switch.

Found it.
I flipped the switch and a single, soft light turned on. It illuminated the small room. A dresser and television set sat near me. Behind me was a bed and a night stand with a telephone on it. A broken lamp lay on the carpeted floor.

It took a while, but I realized that I was in a motel room
; a sleazy one at that. I looked at the blood on the floor. It suddenly occurred to me that I could be the one bleeding. A quick inspection revealed that I was fine as far as bleeding to death went. But if it wasn’t my blood, then whose was it?

I shook my head.
I felt all fogged up. My brain refused to concentrate. The room seemed to be moving before me no matter what I tried. And my stomach insisted on dancing around like it was a rollercoaster. 

Eventually it occurred to me that I should call someone for help.
I managed to make my way around the bed and to the phone on the nightstand. It was a rotary phone. I hadn’t seen one since I was last at my grandmother’s house.

I fumbled with the phone as I attempted to pick up the receiver and dial Jackie’s number.
Hers was the only one I could remember at the moment. My fingers refused to work.  

Before I had time to
completely gather my thoughts and dial Jackie, the door burst open. “Freeze,” yelled the policeman pointing his gun at me.

I obeyed.
The phone rang and jingled when it hit the floor from my dropping it.

“Drop the knife,” commanded the officer.

I glanced at my left hand. Yep, it was still in my hand and I never even realized it. I let it go. Who was I to argue with someone pointing a gun at me?

“Look, officer,” I started say.
My raspy voice made me sound like a growling bear.

“Silence,” said the officer.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

I did
, suddenly aware that I could be shot at any moment. Slowly, I stood up and placed my hands behind my back as ordered. The cuffs snapped into place as the officer placed them tightly around my wrists.

The memory of being arrested while driving my car with Rachel flittered through my brain.
I forced myself back into the present. Now was not a time for strolling down memory lane.

The officer
steered me out of the room and into the warm night air. I didn’t need the warmth of summer to make me sweat. I was sweating like crazy from all that was going on. I spotted the police car easily with its flashing lights.

Two more cars pulled up into the parking lot.
One was another police cruiser and the second a plain station wagon. They parked next to the stationary one. I recognized Detective Shorts the moment he stepped out of the station wagon. From the looks of it, he appeared to have been hauled out of bed.

He spotted me and stopped short.
I could only guess what he was thinking. Shaking his head, he walked up and put on his professional persona. “All right,” he said, “Tell me what happened.”

The officer put me in his cruiser and shut the door.
“We received an anonymous call about a murder that took place here.”

“Where’s the body?
” asked Detective Shorts.

“Haven’t found it,” replied the uniformed officer.

“You haven’t found it?” The irritation in Detective Shorts’ voice was unmistakable.

“There is no body,” said the officer.
“I found her in there holding a knife. A pool of blood on the floor.”

“Has she said anything?”

Annoyance flared up in me at being talked about as though I wasn’t present.

“No.
Would you like to question her now?”

“No,” answered Detective Shorts, “Take her to the station.
I’ll question her there.”

The cop
nodded and placed me in the car before he got behind the wheel. He started the engine and the car lurched a bit as we pulled away. My queasiness became worse with the movements of the vehicle and the stuffy interior. We hadn’t gone very far before I retched in the back seat. Mostly stomach acid came up. I tried to miss my feet, but as luck would have it we hit a bump and my leg ended up covered in vomit. I glanced at the officer. His expression said it all. I had just pissed him off. Poor guy. He’d probably be the one cleaning it up.

Once at the station, I was allowed a trip to the bathroom to clean myself up.
I did the best I could with a handful of paper towels and frigid water from the tap. Having my wrists in handcuffs made it difficult. A female officer accompanied me the entire time refusing to take her eyes off me. I guess she thought I might try to escape.

Though vomiting did help settle my stomach some, I still felt nauseous.
I finished up my efforts to clean the bile from my leg. It wasn’t the best effort, but it would do.

The female officer signaled my time was up and led me out of the bathroom.
Another officer led me to a somewhat secluded area where I was given a drug test and an alcohol test. They took my fingerprints and mug shot. I guess you can say I was booked.

From there another officer took me to an interrogation room.
I had no idea how long I waited in there. It felt like an eternity to me. I basically spent the time resting my head on the table attempting to sleep and clear my head.

After some time had passed, Detective Shorts walked in.
He looked tired and worn and very unhappy at seeing me. He placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of me. Slowly, I took the lid off and took a sip. The lukewarm liquid tasted horrible, but I drank it anyway. My parched mouth didn’t care. Hopefully, the caffeine would ease my headache.

Detective
Shorts sat in the chair across from me. “I seem to remember us being in this situation before,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.
There was nothing for me to say. I felt horrible. My frazzled hair made me look like a madman. And at that moment I didn’t think I could really talk.

“Why is it, wherever there’s trouble, there you
are?”

“You asked me that before,” I said.

“You want to tell me how you got to the Sander’s Motel?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Or why we found you in a room covered in blood and with a knife,” said Detective Sanders.

“I can’t remember,” I said in frustration.

“Mel, you are in a lot of trouble here,” said the detective. “Your car was found in front of the Candle Shoppe. You’ve been missing for two days. And when you are found it’s with the blood of another person all over you and a weapon in your hands.”

“Missing?”
Now I was really confused. Not only could I not remember last night, but apparently I couldn’t even remember the last two days.

“Yes.
Your boyfriend and your friend Jackie were in here yesterday morning completely worried. She said you never came home from work.”

I remained silent trying to put it all together.

“What do you last remember?” asked Detective Shorts.

“It was Tuesday,” I replied.

“Today is Friday. Is there anything you can give me? Any little detail? Did you go anywhere? Did you meet anyone?”

“I don’t know,” I yelled.
“I can’t remember. My head is all fuzzy. I—”

Detective S
horts held up a hand to silence me. “Well, you’ve clearly been given something that has erased your memory for the time being. But it should come back in time,” he said, “However the prosecution will suggest that you are faking your memory loss. Or that you willingly took some drugs which caused your amnesia.”

“Prosecution?”

“Yes, Miss Summers
,” said the detective. “You are in a lot of trouble.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” I protested.
“I’m certain I didn’t.”

“That’s the thing, Miss Summers
. You can’t remember. For all I know you did kill someone.”

“But I didn’t!”

Detective Shorts looked haggard. He really didn’t like the situation. Neither did I.

“Look, Miss Summers, right now we have enough evidence to suggest that you were involved in something.
However, without a body, we cannot prove that you actually killed anyone.

“But the blood on your clothes is human.
And it’s not yours. But right now we can’t prove that it was the result of you defending yourself, or committing premeditated murder. And you are unable to fill in the blanks.”

“So what is to happen to me?” I asked.

“As it stands I do not have enough to charge you with. And on top of that, I have an entire biker gang outside willing to swear that you were with them the entire night. Obstruction of justice means nothing to them.”

If I was supposed to be relieved by all this, I wasn’t.
For all I knew, I really did murder someone. I loathed not remembering anything.

“Mel.”

I’m not sure why Detective Shorts suddenly started calling me by my nickname. Maybe it was because of my situation. Or perhaps he was truly worried about me. His expression seemed to say that he was. I looked up at him.

“I don’t want to be the one to charge you with murder.
I personally don’t think you did it. But the situation is grim. And if the D.A. gets anything that incriminates you, he will have you arrested immediately.”

“Anything?”

“Such as a body,” said Detective Shorts. “And all the sworn oaths from Tiny and his friends will not save you.”

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked.

“I want you to cooperate fully with the law. Do not, under any circumstances, try to solve this yourself. I will do what I can to figure out what happened. But in the meantime, keep a low profile.”

“So, you’re letting me go?”

“Not yet. The D.A. wants me to lock you up, and he thinks he has enough to charge you even if I do not. What you need is a lawyer.

“Now, you get one phone call.
I suggest you use it to get yourself one.”

Right on cue a man charged into the room.
He was tall with black skin. The guy wore a dark, tailored suit, had a small mustache, carried a briefcase, and had “lawyer” written all over him. He wasn’t my lawyer. I didn’t remember hiring him. Of course, with the way my memory was today, I could hardly count on its reliability.

“All questioning of my client is henceforth disbarred,” he said upon entering.

The man sat in the chair next to me opening his briefcase and pulling out a slip of paper. He handed it to Detective Shorts.

“What’s this,” he asked.

“A slip of paper granting my client’s release,” said the man. He was all business. Evidently, this wasn’t the first time he’d done this.

“The District Attorney is not going to like this,” said Detective Shorts.

“That is not my concern,” said the lawyer. “He will find that it is perfectly legal and all in order. As you have admitted to not having enough to officially charge my client already, then you’ve no more cause to hold her.”

Relief crossed Detective Shorts’ face.
I could tell he didn’t want to keep me at the station. “The D.A. is at the judge’s office right now trying to get an arrest warrant.”

“I’m sure he is.
But you can inform the District Attorney that he should have gotten up an hour earlier. The same judge signed that paper in your hand.

“Now, I think we are done here,” the man packed his briefcase and helped me up.
“Miss Summers and I are leaving. If you have any more questions, I advise you to direct them toward me. Now, remove the handcuffs.”

Detective Shorts pulled a key from his pocket and undid my cuffs.
I rubbed my wrists in relief. Who knew metal bands could hurt so much?

The lawyer led
me out the room swiftly and to the front desk. The lady at the desk gave me a paper to sign. She handed me the only two items I had with me when they brought me in: chapstick and two dollars. The lawyer guided me outside. The sun already sat high in the sky telling me I had spent all morning in the police station.