Murder Most Motherly

By Christine Cook

Apprentice investigator, d’Arcy W. Carter, goes undercover at her home gym. It's a case for which she's uniquely suited, but she gets sidetracked when her father calls to tell her that her mother has been murdered.

D'Arcy has hated her mother for years. She has the best motive for killing her. And everyone knows it. In trying to find the real culprit, d'Arcy must come to terms with why she and her mother hated each other, and who she thought her mother was. Perhaps Sonia Carter and d'Arcy W. had more in common than just a doll collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Cook
• Release date: May 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476494807

Christine Cook

Christine Cook writes mysteries and military memoir. She is also in the U.S. Army Reserves. She lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with her husband, two children, a cat and a dog. She is currently working on the next novel in the d'Arcy W. Carter series, as well as several other fiction projects.

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MURDER MOST MOTHERLY

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Copyright 2012 Christine Cook

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Table of Contents

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY CHRISTINE COOK

CONTACT THE AUTHOR

EXCERPT FROM THE KILLER'S CONFESSION

After midnight, and she didn't even care about the fact I should have gone home and gone to bed. Instead, I stood, the antique doll in my hands. I wanted to squeeze it, break it, but I didn't dare. Instead, I carefully laid the doll on the chintz-covered loveseat, and turned back to the brass stand.

Disinherited. Disinherited, for God's sake. That's what this was. And it wasn't fair, after all these years. Barely thinking about it, I picked up the brass stand in my gloved hands. It was as heavy as I'd always remembered it. I'd always had trouble moving it. I'll never forget the time I dropped it on my foot, and cracked one of the bones.

Like a pendulum I swung it, left, right, left again, then as it swung to my right one last time, I spun on my heel and bashed it right into that god damned woman's skull, while she still wrote in that leather journal on her desk in that obnoxious pink silk robe of hers.

The skull caved in from the blow, and the blood began.

I grabbed what she'd been writing, and stuffed it into the bottom of the center desk drawer. Her body fell to the floor as I straightened things, to get rid of evidence. But not for long. I'd made a lot of noise; I had to get out of there. Dropping the stand, I ran from the room, at the last second swooping the doll from its seat as I went. The smell of dust and rose petals stirred in my wake.

Chapter 1

The Dope on Bodybuilding

I had just walked into the office when Ralph called out, Is that d'Arcy?

Yeah, I said, placing my motorcycle helmet on a shelf. I shrugged out of my windbreaker and hung it on the coat rack in the front reception area.

Come on back here; got a case to discuss with you, he said.

A case? That was good news to me. I grabbed my mug, splashed some cream in the bottom, filled up, and joined him in his office. This morning, Ralph looked every bit the Sherlock Holmes, in his tan and brown hounds-tooth jacket and brown corduroy slacks. He sat with his legs perched on top of his monolithic walnut desk, twirling one side of his handlebar mustache. What do you know about bodybuilding? he asked me.

I set my coffee cup on the edge of his desk as I sat down in the chair opposite him. Is that a trick question?

Not really. He eased his legs off his desk. You've done bodybuilding in the past, but after the meat slicer incident…

I'm back at the gym, if that's what you mean. I sipped at the mug, but the coffee was hot. So this case had something to do with weight training. That was something I was good at. Again, good news. Times had been slow the last few weeks, what with the downturn in the Michigan economy. I really needed to earn my keep at this agency.

Which gym? he asked.

Down the street. Powerhouse.

His eyes sparked. Ah, perfect. You say you're back?

I nodded. Not doing as much weight as I'd like, since it hurts like a bitch, but I'm getting back to it.

The owner there, Ralph leaned forward, and put his elbows on his desk. He called this morning. He's been having some problems.

Money problems? That would figure. Everyone was having money problems.

No. I don't think so. Drug problems.

I sloshed my coffee at this announcement. Luckily, my jeans were dark enough and had a bit of brown overwash to them, so the stain wasn't likely to show. What, he thinks someone's dealing 'roids in the back room?

Ralph wrinkled his brow at my words. What you said. Yeah, I think that's it.

Damn. Money problems, I probably could handle. Steroids? Those things scared me. Hesitantly, I said, Wouldn't be surprised. There are some big boys in that gym. Wouldn't be surprised at all, if some of them were using. I thought of the guy who'd gotten me back on track with my routine. Tom. Big black guy with numerous cuts on his body from the times he'd been stabbed in gang fights. Prone to anger and rage, I was certain he used, but never analyzed where he might be getting it from. You mean, Jake's not the dealer?

No. He wants to know who's doing it and get him the hell out of there. How would you go about investigating this thing?

I looked at him, speechless for a moment. I'd only been an apprentice to him for about four months. I never felt competent enough to come up with suggestions. Most of the time, I solved cases in spite of myself. But Ralph was training me to take over his business in a year or two, as long as I did okay as an assistant investigator. I'd never asked him how old he and Genevieve were, but they had a daughter who was either my age, or a little older. D'Arcy W. Carter Investigations. I liked the sound of that.

Is entrapment legal? I asked.

Depends. What you got in mind?

Well, if there's a show coming up, I could train for that, and need a little dope to get hard. Just how I'd pull off that charade was beyond me, but I didn't say this to Ralph. In spite of more than six years of bodybuilding, I had yet to come close to developing a quintessentially perfect female form that was good enough for a competition. If a bodybuilder did it close, but not quite, they either bloated up, or their training would eat a lot of their muscle.

But I wanted this case. I wanted to prove to him that I could solve a case without much interference on his part. And I knew a lot more about bodybuilding than he did.

Entrapment's not my first choice. If you're caught, you could be in a dangerous situation. But yeah, that would do it. You willing?

I guess, I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. Not only had I just gotten the assignment for the first investigation to come along in weeks, but now I could combine two loves, and peak for a contest in the process.

Not that I had had a huge amount of success at it in the past. To do it when you'd sliced through the muscles and ligaments of one arm just about three months ago? It was probably insanity.

I don't have to peak for the contest, I guess, I mused, but then, maybe I wanted to. He heard me.

What do you mean? He had picked up his phone and was about to dial.

I mean, I might have trouble trying to prepare perfectly for a contest, but that doesn't matter, does it?

He shook his head no, and dialed. You'd pull it off better than I ever could. He waited, then someone picked up. I could hear a tinny sounding voice on the other side of the line. Jacob? Hey, d'Arcy's willing to take on the case. Yes, d'Arcy Carter. I know, perfect indeed. Sure, she'll start today.

He hung up. Speaking of phones, I drained the last of my coffee and stood up.

What?

When do I get a cell phone?

I don't know. When do you get a cell phone? He laughed.

I made a sourpuss face at him. Since I would use it ninety nine percent for business, don't you think that's a Ralph Hughes Investigations expense?

It's that one percent I'm concerned about.

Ralph—

He raised his hands above his head in a 'don't shoot me' pose. Joking. Your point's well taken. Genevieve is ordering them for all of us. We'll finally move into the twenty-first century. But, tell me.

What?

How are you going to hear it when you're on the motorcycle? Better yet, when you get back to coming to work on your bicycle, then what'll you do?

I shrugged. That time's coming sooner rather than later. I'll start using the bike again to do my cardio for the contest.

I didn't know how my arm would handle the strain, but I couldn't wait to get started.

Chapter 2

Unexpected News

I didn't bring any workout clothes with me, and since I was supposed to start the case immediately, I left Ralph and Genevieve at the office and headed back home on the motorbike I got a few months back. I don't own a car. It's a long story as to why, since both my father and brother work for GM, and I lived in the car capitol of the United States. Suffice it to say I've never wanted to be beholden to anyone for anything, especially my family.

I went down Michigan Avenue due west till I hit Ypsilanti, made the jog onto the business loop, then turned right on Pearl. My new house was the corner home on a block of five connected row homes. It had been built in the early 1900s, out of brick and wood. The porch needed some repair and a good paint job, and the electricity scared me. But it was the best Peyton had been able to find on short notice, closer now to his school than it was to my work, and we'd spent the last three weeks making it our home.

Peyton, my roommate, was a marvel when it came to interior decorating, so it was a small miracle what he'd already gotten done with the place. Every time I walked in, I fell in love with the living room all over again. He and I had painted the walls coral-pink, like the inside of a guava, then laid a golden metallic wash over it in wide semi-circled brush strokes so it almost looked like pink tourmaline. At dawn, when first light sparkled off the walls, it felt like we were in heaven. It was almost enough to make me a morning person. Almost, but not quite.

The zebra rug and the black and white barber-pole striped chairs were still in this room, but Peyton talked about changing them out. I had no idea what he had in mind, but whatever it was, it would be good.

The house was silent when I came in. Peyton must already have dressed and left for classes. I headed for the stairs, then stopped, mid-stride. I heard a meow.

Pantera? Silence at first, then a pathetic mew in response. It sounded muffled, far away. Where are you, cat?

I heard a bit of scratching. The basement? How did she get in there? I went through the kitchen, and opened the basement door. Pantera sat on the top step, and looked up at me with eyes so huge, her head looked small in comparison. Her ears were flat, pasted down with white. Cobwebs? Pantera, where have you been? How did you get down there? I looked at my watch. How long have you been there?

I picked her up and pulled the most obvious pieces of cobweb off her face, back and paws. She huffed in my general direction, as though to blame me for her predicament. But she let me clean her up, and then I put her back on the floor again. She looked down the steps of the basement, as though she considered the adventure again, but I closed the door before she had a chance. Not only no, my dear, but Hell no. I threw the cobwebs into the trash, checked her food bowl and water, even though I'd refilled both of them this morning, then petted her as she took her first few bites. Crazy cat. How many animals liked being touched while they ate?

Once she settled into eating in earnest, I took the steps two at a time, swung around the hall banister and then bounded up the second flight. I lived on the third floor, in the room Peyton called the Eagle's Aerie. Nothing had been done to my room yet. I had a chest of drawers, and my queen-sized mattress was on the floor. I still had sari fabric sheets, left over from the bed in the old house, and I loved their riot of rich color, but now Peyton said he was considering Moroccan. Whatever. I could live with my bed on the floor as long as it took.

I rooted through my bottom drawer and found some warm up pants and a tank top, then gathered some white socks and my weightlifting shoes. I changed quickly, then folded my clothes and tucked them in a duffle to change into later. My bicycle helmet was in the closet on the ground floor. I was about to head downstairs when the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. The display read, Private Name, Private Number.

Hmm. Somehow, I knew it wasn't a sales call. I felt the icy feeling in my chest that portends bad news. I let the answering machine pick up, then heard my father's voice. D'Arcy, if you are there, I need you to pick up.

Which I did. Father?

D'Arcy. You must come at once.

Come where? What's going on? He couldn't mean he wanted me to come for lunch, could he? My parents and I were not on the best of terms at the best of times, so why the sudden need to see me?

Here, the house. Now. Your mother is dead.

What??!

Murdered.

I dropped the phone.

Chapter 3

Stepping Back in Time

My father still talked, so I collapsed into a cross-legged position, and picked up the phone again. —and I've contacted your brothers as well. His voice broke. It was horrifying.

Did you find her? How did it happen? I asked. I could feel a blockage coming up my throat, threatening to explode. I swallowed it down in big swallows. I had no time for emotions right now.

Come here. The police will tell us what they think we need to know.

He hung up. Never much on ceremony, I thought, more than a little uncharitably. How could my mother have been murdered? She was too strong, too stubborn, too, too…to ever get killed. I'd thought she'd be the bane of my existence forever.

In a daze, I walked down the steps, out to the car, turned on the engine, then realized I needed to report to Ralph what had happened. I would not be able to start the investigation at the gym immediately, even though I'd really wanted to. If I had a cell phone, Ralph, I'd be able to call you on the road, I said to the air, then turned off the engine, locked the car door again, and walked up the porch steps back into the house.

I used the kitchen phone to call. Genevieve answered. Something's come up, I need to talk to Ralph.

She put me through. Ralph? It's d'Arcy. Something's come up. I can't go to the gym right now.

Why? He sounded wary.

My father just called. My mother is dead.

I heard his gasp. Oh, my God, d'Arcy, are you all right?

The truth was, I felt nothing. I pulled my hair back from my eyes. I'm okay. But my father needs me to go to his house.

Well, yes, of course. I'll let Jake know you won't be in.

I might be there later this afternoon.

D'Arcy, do what you need to do for your family.

Yes, sir, I said, not really knowing why I called him sir. I hung up, then repeated my steps back to the car. It wasn't until later I realized I'd left my duffle bag with a change of clothes on the floor in my bedroom.

I got on the road, unable to concentrate on much of anything. I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that my mother might be dead. I'd never loved her. We'd had our issues, but I'd never wanted her dead. At least, I never admitted it. I felt a mixture of relief and fear. The relief part? It was a feeling I didn't expect, and didn't feel comfortable about.

Do what you need to do for your family. That's what Ralph had said. In a normal family, maybe a daughter would have something to do if the mother died.

Taking the highways, the Grosse Pointes were about an hour and fifteen minutes from my house in Ypsilanti. People outside the state may lump Grosse Pointe into one high-class town, but it's actually a series of five small burgs, each richer and more opulent than the next. There's Grosse Pointe Village, Grosse Pointe Woods, and Grosse Point Farms…I finally pulled onto Lake Shore Drive and drove south, past the Edsel Ford Estate and into Grosse Pointe Shores, where my family's estate was located. I pulled into the driveway after the almost blind curve, as though in a dream. I drove up the long driveway and wondered where to park.

Not long ago, my mother had yelled at me about parking in the wrong section of driveway. She said she couldn't get around the ancient Probe I drove. She hated the fact that I mostly rode a bicycle, but when I had borrowed a car, she still wasn't satisfied. I could hear her angry voice as it bounced around in my head, so loud and clear I almost imagined she still yelled at me. I pulled up to the midway point of the drive, a long way from the front door of the house, but anyone else could pull past me.

Obeying my mother's wishes, even after she was dead. Why? Because, deep down, I wanted to be a part of my family again, wanted to be accepted, and loved for who I was.

I got out of the car, but couldn't look at the house. Instead I looked back at Lake Shore Drive. In this stretch, the road was a wide boulevard, with a short expanse of greenway across the street, which ended at the shore of Lake St. Clair. The heart of the Great Lakes, Lake St. Clair was a heart-shaped lake used as a connecting point between Lake Huron and the Detroit River, which led to Lake Erie. I'd heard on the radio that Lake St. Clair was one of the most polluted lakes in the Great Lakes system, but in the mid-morning clearness of this bright blue October day, it shone in all its Copenhagen blue glory.

I didn't miss this house, but I did miss the view. Speaking of the house, it was time to turn back around and go face the worst of it. I wasn't sure why my father had wanted me here. I had been disinherited by my mother a long time ago, and in the last few weeks, she had made it clear I wasn't to step into the house. To my mind, her being killed didn't change these facts. I trudged up the hill, staying on the driveway out of habit since, ever since we were kids, we weren't allowed to walk on the green lawn. That lawn was for weddings and for garden or cocktail parties, not for the kids who lived here. My mother's voice still echoed in my head.

My parents had used the early fall to fix up the grounds for the winter. It must have been incredibly expensive to keep up appearances in Grosse Pointe Shores. The driveway gleamed a deeper, brighter black than usual, and the smell of tar proved Father must have had someone put a new layer of asphalt on its whole length. I really should have parked elsewhere, but I couldn't for the life of me think of another place. I looked at the house. The red painted brick still glistened, creating quite a contrast to the black drive, the blue sky, and the green grass. It was then that I saw the Police Caution tape across the small front porch, and I stopped mid-stride. Something like a knife wheedled at my sternum. Oh, God.

This had really happened. My father wasn't kidding around, not that I thought he had been. My mother was dead. He'd said she was murdered. But how? By whom? Why? Who would have a reason to kill my mother, of all people?

Well, I thought, again uncharitably. Lots of people might have wanted her dead, myself included on a couple of occasions. She had made my life a living hell, and done a lot of things that I could never forgive her for. But why now? On this beautiful day at the beginning of an October that promised to be one of the prettiest autumns we'd had in years?

I'd reached the L-shaped slate walk that led to the porch, but hesitated. Did I go up to the front door, in spite of the Caution tape? Or did I go to the back door and enter the kitchen? My indecision was answered when my father opened the front door himself and beckoned to me. He was dressed, as usual, in a suit and tie. I trotted up the walk, and he held the tape up for me to cross under. You're the first one here, he said.

The house was dark in the foyer, and it felt cool. Almost without thinking, I sniffed the air, wondering if I would smell death. Instead, I smelled rose potpourri. My mother had always been a fan of roses. Again, I felt a stab in my heart, and the lump in my throat reappeared. But I didn't cry.

Where did it happen? And, what did happen? I asked, almost as an afterthought. I wanted to ask how he knew it was murder, versus, say, a heart attack. I regretted my questions a minute later as I saw tears spring to his eyes. I'd never seen my father cry. I didn't want to see it now. I wondered if he'd been the one to discover the body. Oh, God, I'd just referred to my mother as 'the body.' This was so sick and wrong on so many levels.

The police are here, he said in response to my question, and he wiped under his eyes in an effort to control himself. I think, before they release any details as to the time of death and how it happened, they want to ask all the family members some preliminary questions.

Family members? I asked. Did they seriously believe any of our family had anything to do with it? Well, duh, d'Arcy. You just asked yourself who, besides me, would want her dead. Who else but family would go to the trouble? I was, after all, a private investigator. That was the first chapter of Private Investigating For Dummies wasn't it? Suspect the family first.

Chapter 4

Guilty Till Proven Innocent

My father led me to the library. The hallway was so dark in comparison to the bright sunlight outside that I had to stop to get my bearings. I touched the first curio cabinet in the row of three to steady myself, but also to take a quick peek at the dolls. I wanted to ensure they were all right after my mother's precipitous departure.

The cabinet's lights weren't on, but I could see the dolls in the shadows. All seemed to be in order. My mother never changed the placement of the dolls, although the absence of any dust made me realize Annie, the maid, must dust them at least weekly. I almost wanted to open the case, take out