Murder Is Revealing: Write Club Mysteries, #1

Prologue

First, she noticed the eyes. Open empty globes stared up at the ceiling in the small office. She hurried over to the body. A scent of expensive perfume hung in the air. In front of a large wooden desk, Candace lay crumpled on the linoleum floor. Her body twisted and her right hand extended away from her torso.

She had dreamt of this moment, fantasized about it. But now, seeing Candace splayed across the floor.... Without thinking she knelt down. Her shaking hand reached out toward the blue silk blouse. She froze. Her gaze hovered over a spot where blood oozed onto the fabric. As she stared at the spot, Candace’s eyelids fluttered.

Startled, she fell backward onto her buttocks, bumped up against a chair next to the desk. On her hands and knees, she leaned forward, scrutinized the face. Candace’s unseeing eyes never deviated, remaining fixated on the ceiling. The image disturbed her. She drew down the eyelids, careful not to touch any blood.

Cheap metal cabinets hugged the walls on both sides of the room. She scanned the space, considered whether to search for her documents or depart. Eerily silent, the walls seemed to press down upon her. She heard the air conditioner kick on. Cold pricked her skin, goosebumps erupted along her arms. She struggled to remain calm. Seconds ticked by.

Candace wasn’t supposed to be there. She couldn’t ransack the office with a dead body present, even if the deceased had been someone she loathed. She wondered if anyone heard the shot, unsure she decided to leave. When she stood back up, the room seemed to simultaneously expand and contract. Sweat trickled down her back, her heart raced. Anxious, her hand instinctively reached for the revolver inside her purse. Instead of engendering confidence, the cool steely weapon frightened her.

She backed out of the room, observed the areas where she stepped. Without thinking, her hand reached forward to shut the door. Fingerprints. She jerked her hand away and ran, leaving the office door ajar.

Taking the stairs, she arrived on the first floor and hid behind a large plastic tree. A handful of people were walking through the lobby. At the entrance, a woman stood next to the automatic doors.

In the opposite direction, she spotted a red neon exit sign shining like a beacon. With her head down, careful not to be seen, she paced herself and crossed the lobby. She escaped from the rear of the building.

Humid summer air smacked against her face. The sudden warmth made her sweat even more. Before the door closed behind her, she raced across a small patch of pine trees separating the office complex from an adjacent shopping center. Her gait slowed as she intermingled with shoppers. On the other side of the parking lot, she located her vehicle.

Once inside, she locked the door, wiped sweat from her forehead and leaned back against the headrest. Bile refluxed in the back of her throat leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She craved water.

She counted backward from ten as her heart rate slowed. Her gaze swept the area, she checked her surroundings, listened for police sirens. The thought uppermost in her mind—where to ditch the gun.

Chapter 1

I ’m confident that bank regulators will pay close attention to the kinds of loans that are being made, making sure that underwriting is being done right. I do think this is mainly a localized problem and not something that's going to affect the national economy.

Ben Bernanke, 2005

JUNE 2007

Situated off Lawndale Drive, her office more resembled a tiny craftsman home than a medical building. Myaisha purchased it years ago when she first opened her internal medicine-pediatrics practice. This evening, only three cars remained parked in the asphalt parking lot out front. Her staff parked in the back.

In exam room one, reading over the form again, she noticed a section labeled genitalia.

Hal, she said, this form requires a testicular exam.

She cracked open the door and called for her medical assistant. Dina, I need a chaperone.

Boggle eyed, Hal squirmed on the exam table clutching the cloth gown around his body. His voice quivered. Do I have to do this? he asked.

After she closed the door, she walked over to the glove box and wrangled her hands into disposable gloves. Re-reading the form, she noted the deadline for the document read next week.

No, Hal. It’s up to you. I can write on the form you deferred the genital exam, and you can discuss it with your recruiter. She watched him contemplate his options. He must have expected a simply cursory examination. Unfortunately for him, the military demanded a complete examination, lab work, and vaccinations. She read the consternation cross his face as his eyebrows knitted.

He cleared his throat. That’s okay, Dr. Douglas.

The visit continued as she questioned his about his sexual history, ordered tests for sexually transmitted diseases and a tuberculosis test in the EHR, electronic health record. She was educating him about how to use condoms as her medical assistant entered the room wearing a surgical face mask and gloves.

With a brief glance at her assistant, she explained what she required. She made a mental note to speak with Dina later about using the surgical masks with the face shields. She believed her medical assistant had undiagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder. A face mask and gloves were a daily part of their occupation, but Dina took it to the extreme—she wore them even when she greeted patients at the front desk or answered phones. She put those thoughts aside and completed the examination.

After removing her gloves and washing her hands, she said, Bye, Hal. Good luck.

In the hallway, she heard her staff cleaning the exam rooms. The lobby was empty. Hal had been her last patient of the day. She retired to her modest office located in the back of the building.

Behind her desk, she slipped her feet out of her Birkenstocks. Draped her lab coat over the back of the chair and reached over to a side table. She turned on an electric tea kettle and started charting on her patients.

No reason to rush home. Josiah, her only child, started college last fall. He probably wouldn’t come home for summer vacation. He barely made it back for spring break, she recalled. The last time they spoke, he mentioned a possible summer internship in Raleigh. Other than Boomer, her black Labrador, no one expected her home. Since she installed an automatic doggy door, even he didn’t need her home right away.

She extended her arms in a yoga pose, and stretched her back. The tension in her neck eased. From the corner of her eyes, she glimpsed the photo of her deceased husband. If Sammy were alive, she would be planning dinner. Five years ago, a stroke killed him and upended her life. With her thoughts on Sammy, her fingers caressed the cool silver frame. It had always been her favorite picture of him, taken before their engagement. In the photo, he sported a large grin and an afro, a basketball balanced on his hip. Tears glistened in her eyes. She tasted the salty tears as she swiveled back toward her computer and returned to her charting.

Dina poked her head through the open door and knocked on the adjoining wall.

Come in, she said, eyes glued to the computer.

Dina adjusted the mask on her face, and said, Everyone’s gone. I scheduled two new patient visits for tomorrow. Do you need anything else?

Her tea kettle whistled. She dropped a tea bag into a cup and poured in boiling water. No, I’m good. Thank you. Oh, by the way, stop wearing those surgical face masks with the splash guard.

But, doctor—

I know, Dina, you’re worried about infections. You can wear the regular disposable masks. The others cost too much for you to wear every day. See you tomorrow.

Yes, Dr. Douglas. See yah tomorrow. Don’t forget to lock up.

Scents of vanilla and honey filled the room. She sipped her tea and charted. Noises from her staff closing up the office drifted through her door. An appointment reminder popped up on her computer monitor. Her writing group met in two hours. She didn’t want to be late. Tonight would be their first time at the new location.

Since their group formed, they never had a permanent meeting place. They gathered in each other’s homes, in libraries, or the park. Finally, they would have a consistent place. Her college friend, Candace Knight, negotiated the donation of a permanent meeting place. Surprising given she never knew her friend had any interest in writing.

Myaisha found solace in writing. An avid reader, she dreamed of creating stories from her favorite genres, mysteries and thrillers. She even entered writing contests in college. After Sammy died, writing helped her cope with her grief. Their writers group provided her with a social and emotional outlet.

Given her monetary contribution, Candace would more than likely attend the meeting tonight. Myaisha would make sure to thank her. With a quick glance at the clock again, she considered her task folder. Patient calls. Medication refills. Disability forms. Everything competed for her attention. She realized she had to hurry.

Chapter 2

Kevin hopped onto the sidewalk, a baseball cap low over his eyes shielding the bright sunlight. A man exited the Bradley Building and held the door open for him. Refreshed by the cool air, he muttered thanks as he entered the office complex. He walked over to the building directory. His eyes quickly bypassed the notices for medical and dental offices and located the name he sought. Gold cursive letters spelled out the name Candace Knight. 

Stairs offered the anonymity he desired. A heavy gray door led to a stairway smelling of damp and cigarettes. He exited the stairwell onto the third floor. An office door displayed even larger gold lettering. He cracked his knuckles, fought the temptation to rip the stenciling off the wooden door and toss the letters into the trash. Seeing her name on bold display made him angry all over again.

He came to speak with Candace about getting out of his mortgage. He hoped she would agree to assist him, or else. Up to this point, he hadn’t worked out the ‘or else’ part of his plan.

He yanked open the door and stomped up to the lobby window. His hands slapped down on the countertop harder than he intended. A pen bounced off the surface and onto the floor.

The receptionist’s eyes enlarged, and she sat up straighter in her chair. May I help you? she asked.

He gave only a fleeting glance at her makeup and long, polished nails. The spidery wrinkles at the corners of her eyes conflicted with her youthful dress. My name is Kevin Washington. I need to speak with Mrs. Knight, he said.

Do you have an appointment?

He had called several times in the past week to discuss his concerns. Using her syrupy drawl, Candace had tried to put him off with a complicated explanation about refinancing his home mortgage. The information left him even more confused and he insisted on speaking with her in person. She had gotten him into this mess, she damn well better get him out of it.

He pushed his cap farther back on his bald head and cracked his knuckles. She’s expecting me. I told her I was comin’ over.

Even as he spoke, his eyes skimmed the office. He heard traffic from the road outside. Several leather chairs, some flower art work on the walls, and a magazine rack filled the space—nothing of interest to him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the receptionist pick up the phone. She covered the mouth piece with her cupped hand as she spoke into the receiver. Her head nodded as she listened, an occasional sly glance crept his way.

His fist banged on the countertop. Forget it. I’ll help myself. I know the way.

He hurried to the door beside the reception window and found it locked. His burly shoulder pressed against the obstacle. He was mad—desperate. The increase in his mortgage payments had him up all night worrying. The hollow particle board door creaked under his weight, and continued pressure caused the door to break. Without delay, he headed toward the room in back.

The receptionist called after him. Sir. Sir, you can’t go back there. Stop.

She was no match for his long strides. Her voice faded into the background.

He heard someone talking inside the room. From a crack in the doorway he saw a woman seated at a large desk on the telephone. He pushed the door aside, slammed it against the opposite wall. A scowled creased his forehead as he scowled down at Candace Knight.

KEVIN’S ENTRY CAUGHT Candace by surprise. She was speaking on the phone with her assistant, LaDonna, when she heard a crash. Before he flung her door open, she instructed LaDonna to call the police. Now, she hung up the phone and stood facing him.

She said, Mr. Washington—

Over the large wooden desk, he leaned forward, glared into her face and cut her off. A bent hairy finger pointed at her. Don’t even try it. I want out of this mortgage. You knew what you were doing selling me a house I couldn’t afford.

Her manicured hands smoothed out her suit jacket. She displayed a contrite grin. Kevin, why don’t you sit down. We can discuss this like adults.

His hands waved wildly in her face. There is nothing to discuss. I want out of this mortgage. I told you what I could afford.

Kevin, if you cannot conduct yourself appropriately, then I will have to ask you to leave.

Spittle flew out his mouth as he spoke. I’m not going anywhere ‘til you tell me how to get out of this mess. I told you what I needed for my mortgage. You sold me this house to collect a big fat fee.

She buttoned her jacket and lifted her chin. You are a grown man. I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. If you neglected to read the contract you signed, then that is your problem.

You were supposed to get me a 30 year VA loan. I didn’t tell you I wanted an adjustable rate mortgage. In another year, I won’t even be able to afford my payments.

We discussed this at the closing. Now, if you would like my assistance I suggest you sit down and compose yourself. Otherwise—

Before she could complete her sentence, he rushed around the side of the desk. He snatched up her arm and twisted it.

His calloused hands felt like sandpaper. She smelled the musk of the outdoors on him. Her eyes grew wide, her mouth hung open as she gaped at him.

Two police officers entered with LaDonna in tow before she could react. She looked beyond her attacker, saw the officer in front place his right hand on his weapon. His left hand extended toward Kevin. A second officer stood beside LaDonna.

The first officer said, Sir, I’m gonna need you to step away from the lady.

Kevin’s head snapped toward the door.

Both police officers had entered the room, crowding its small interior. Candace considered the likelihood of her client getting shot in her office. Her one thought, how the bad publicity would impact her business and the stains on the linoleum.

Kevin gazed at where he grasped her arm and released it. Then he stepped away from her with his palms raised.

The first officer directed Kevin down onto his knees. Circling from behind, the second officer approached with his handcuffs out. They cuffed him and led him away.

Candace rubbed her arm and straightened her sleeve.

LaDonna rushed to her side. Are you alright?

I’m fine.

LaDonna spoke in hurried sentences, helped her retrieve the papers spilled onto the floor. I can’t believe he pushed his way in here like that. He broke the door to the lobby.

She ignored LaDonna’s comments, thought about how Kevin could have seriously hurt her. She needed to be more careful—take precautions. I’m fine, she said. I got this. Go call maintenance to fix the door.

But—

A police officer returned, interrupting LaDonna’s protestations. The officer inquired about what occurred.

Over LaDonna’s objections—instead of detailing what happened—she told the officer she didn’t want to file a complaint. She regained her seat and disclosed to the officer Kevin Washington had been a client. Retired military, he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, she stated. She explained she simply wanted him removed from the premises.

After he collected their statements, the officer departed. LaDonna followed him out.

Settled back into her chair, Candace pulled out a small hand mirror and checked her appearance—short brown hair with blond highlights. She adjusted her bangs and touched up her lipstick. Then she powdered blush over her high sharp cheekbones and green contacts touched off her appearance. She needed to look her best.

The writers meeting tonight would launch her next business venture. She checked the time. She spritzed the air with a few squirts of her perfume—she could still smell Kevin’s musty odor.

After powering down her computer, she removed her purse from the side drawer. Before she left, she made sure to load her gun. For good measure, she dropped in an extra magazine.

Maybe she should employ a personal security service. No time for that now. She rushed out the office. She had something important to take care of before the meeting.

Chapter 3

Nicknamed the ‘Gate City’ in 1891 when the railroad linked it in the south to Charlotte and north to Goldsboro, Greensboro was spelled Greensborough until 1895. Spring weather retained its hold over North Carolina. Summer waited, if impatiently, for its time.

Candace surveyed the area. The mud smelled rank, similar to cow manure. She contemplated her leather boots, wary of the sludge puddles. With her arms crossed over her chest, she reclined against the side of her cheery red Cadillac convertible and waited. She didn’t intend to show up late for the writers meeting tonight.

Located half an hour outside Greensboro, the abandoned railway station served as a perfect place for an inconspicuous rendezvous. Ominous ash gray clouds loomed above, a momentary break in the rain which threatened a downpour at any moment. Moist air added a heaviness to the atmosphere.

Traffic noise from Highway 68 muffled the sound of his car engine. She watched his minivan leave the road and bump along the potholes. He was late. Breezes swayed the tree tops. She shivered, wrapped her arms tighter around her chest.

Parking several yards away, he exited his car and sauntered in her direction.

She noticed how hard he looked. Short pepper gray hair, balding on top, he was a middle aged man with a protuberant abdomen hanging over his belt. He looked pathetic—nothing like she remembered. She had admired him for his business acumen. His appetite for risk mirrored her own. At the time they met, Charles Marshall had become one of the most successful bankers in Charlotte and worked for one of the largest banks in the country.

She sought out his advice when she decided to pursue a real estate business in Greensboro. With his assistance she acquired her realtors license and obtained her first rental listings. For many years they worked well together. Voted the top real estate agent in the county for the past three years, the Greensboro association of business owners named her woman of the year two years ago. She owned multiple franchises and last year launched a medical supply business. Now, looking at this practical stranger, she failed to see the man whose personal ambitions rivaled her own.

She smelled rain in the air. Unfolding her arms, she pushed off the convertible with her boot and met him halfway between their vehicles. Eager to conclude their business and get to the writers meeting.

Across the swampy expanse separating them, she asked, Why did you call me?

Charles stopped about two feet away from her and snickered. Not even a hello for an old friend?

We were never friends.

"What were we?

Business partners. That’s all.

A gust of wind blew leaves off the tall pines and rustled her hair across her face. She pulled her knee length leather jacket tight around her body.

He glanced up at the sky with a grimace. A large raindrop plopped in the center of his face and dripped down his full brown cracked lips. Nimbus clouds blocked the setting sun. He rubbed his stubble chin. Fine. Let's get down to business. You owe me, and I intend to collect.

I owe you nothing. If you were too stupid to hedge your bets, then that’s your problem. How long did you think the housing market boom would last? I told you to unload your properties last year.

No one knew the market would collapse. Besides, this is about more than just myself. If my bank gets audited, they’ll discover the loans we arranged for your clients.

We? I came to you as a customer. If you made bad loans, the bank will come after you. She pointed her chin in his direction.

A long ashy finger flew in her direction. You knew exactly what we were doing.

A lopsided smile crept over her face. "People have been shorting the housing market for years. Smart people knew how to make money. I acted in the best interests of my clients. They were my responsibility. Your responsibility was to the bank."

You won’t get away with this. His lips quivered. If I go down, I’m taking you with me.

I don’t think so. My name isn’t on any of the paperwork—just yours and my clients. Hands on her hips, she took a step toward him. Besides, who would they believe, you or me? The big corrupt banker or the hardworking small business owner.

Hmm. Hardworking, maybe. Honest, never. His head thrust in her direction. They’ll believe me when I show them proof.

What proof? You’ve got nothing. The banks are going to take the blame for this crisis, and the government will bail them out just like they did with Enron, and business will return to normal. If you’d sold your properties like I told you to, then you could be starting something new right now. I just launched a medical supply business, and I’m getting into writing. If you’d taken my advice you wouldn’t be freaking out right now.

Didn’t you hear what I said? My bank is getting audited next week. If they find out what we did—

What you did. She walked away. After several steps, she turned and addressed him over her shoulder. Compared to the bank fraud you committed, I didn’t do anything.

He spoke to her back. Don’t you understand? You’re destroying lives. Real peoples’ lives.

Like you care. Fool. You waited too long. Should’ve cashed out last year.

Before she could enter her car he ran up on her. Seized her by the left arm and spun her around. He stuck his nose mere inches from her face. His eyes squinted as he squeezed her arm tighter. Their eyes locked.

With her right hand, Candace thrust her purse in his direction. Despite the traffic noise, she heard the click. Her eyes narrowed and stayed fixed on his face. Her heart raced, but she swallowed her fear. She focused on her anger. Should she shoot to kill or just maim him?

He relinquished her arm.

From inside her purse, she strengthened her grip around the gun.

Hands raised, Charles stepped backward into a puddle and soiled his shoes.

She gritted her teeth, brought the gun outside her purse and leveled it at his chest. Don’t ever touch me.

Once she returned to her car, she transferred the gun to her left hand and entered her vehicle with the weapon trained on him. She tasted blood from where she bit the inside of her lip.

He spoke to her through the window. You’re messing with the wrong people this time, Candace. I’m warning you. Watch your step.

Go back home. Worry about yourself. She smirked.

Opening with a rancorous anger, the sky unleashed a torrent of rain. She drove away. Skirted around the puddles, and observed him from her rearview mirror.

Drenched from the rain, Charles stood in the same spot where she left him. His piercing black eyes followed her car. From her rearview mirror, she watched him draw his index finger slowly across his neck.

Chapter 4

Traffic on Elm Street usually