Dying to Get Even

By Judy Fitzwater

The second in the acclaimed Jennifer Marsh mystery series!

Unpublished author and reluctant amateur detective Jennifer Marsh doesn't know how she keeps finding herself in the middle of a murder. Okay, the first one was her fault (she framed herself) but this one is just bad luck: catching her good friend, Emmie Walker, standing over her dead ex-husband, Edgar, holding a bloody knife.

Jennifer's sure Emmie is innocent. She's a sweet senior citizen who is way too smart to do something so stupid. So what if she has motive (her former husband was loaded and she'd gain ownership over his successful chain of restaurants) and opportunity (found holding a knife over his body)? She's not the only one.

Edgar Walker was not a nice man. People were probably standing in line to murder him. The question is who got to him first?

With help from her quirky writer's group, gorgeous, cranky reporter Sam, and her own fictional heroine Maxie Malone, Jennifer's determined to get to the bottom of this... before Emmie's convicted based on Jennifer's own eyewitness testimony.

“...one of the funniest new mystery authors since Janet Evanovich....see why mystery fans are still laughing!”
–-Meritorious Mysteries

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judy Fitzwater
• Release date: Jul 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476275048

Judy Fitzwater

Judy Fitzwater grew up an Air Force brat and has lived in ten states, including Maine and Hawaii. Her first mystery, DYING TO GET PUBLISHED, was plucked from a stack of unsolicited manuscripts at Ballantine Books. It was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Mystery. The subsequent eight-book series, THE JENNIFER MARSH MYSTERIES, was a delight for her to write, especially the scenes with Jennifer's quirky writers' group. Judy has also written two suspense thrillers, DROWNING IN AIR and NO SAFE PLACE, and the ghostly romantic comedy, VACATIONING WITH THE DEAD. She's very excited about her newest release, LOVE AFTER DEATH, which takes characters from both DYING AT HONEYMOON INN and VACATIONING WITH THE DEAD on new adventures. She has plans for more mystery, suspense, humor, and paranormal stories to come. She hopes you enjoy reading her books as much as she enjoys writing them.

Book preview

Chapter 1

As she perched on the witness stand, Jennifer Marsh steeled herself, her long, taffy-brown hair wound into a neat, business-like French twist. She might be facing one of the most difficult situations in her almost thirty years on this earth, but she knew exactly what to do, exactly what Maxie Malone, the confident heroine of her mystery novels, would do. She would make it tough for the district attorney and his team, who were determined to put her dear friend in prison for life—or worse. They'd have to force information out of her if they were going to get it at all.

The judge, the prosecutors, and the defense team had been in a sidebar for what seemed like forever—at least five minutes. Why was it taking so long? What could they be talking about? Why didn't they just admit defeat, excuse her, and release her from that horrible witness box?

She looked out over the sterile, upholstered sleekness of the new courtroom. Not a vacant seat in sight.

The only ingredients missing were low ceiling fans, the cloying smoke of cigars, white suits on the defense team, and maybe a statue of a Confederate hero. And those uncomfortable wooden benches and slat-backed chairs. Broad-brimmed hats on the ladies, a hankie or two…

Okay. So there was a lot missing, not the least of which was a little real justice. Atlanta could do better.

And where was the emotion, for Heaven's sake? A woman was fighting for her life. Yet there sat the spectators, chatting, smiling, passing the time as if they were at a cocktail party or the racetrack.

Where was the heat? Where was the sweat? Where was the smell of fear? And where were those wonderful little paper hand fans that Southerners fluttered in all those vintage movies to indicate their excitement and their despair?

In the middle of the very last row of benches, Jennifer could see her writers' group: Leigh Ann, Teri, April—young, aspiring authors all. Even Monique had come. Of course, she wasn't holding any part of the banner that stretched from Leigh Ann to Teri across April's bulging, pregnant stomach, the banner that read HANG IN THERE, JEN, the banner that the police officer was even now removing from their grasp.

Her eyes wandered to the row reserved for the press and to Sam—sweet, sensitive, infuriating Sam, who just might turn out to be the love of her life if their relationship ever actually made it to love. He sat there with his fellow journalists, pen and paper ready to represent the Macon Telegraph. Sam Culpepper would do his best, bless his heart, but he had a most irritating habit of including all the facts in his stories, facts that might be misconstrued by the public. Facts that would point straight to the accused.

Next to him, Jennifer recognized Teague McAfee, cub reporter for the Atlanta Eye, the tabloid that daily redefined yellow journalism. Teague had been dogging her trail ever since the murder, and his smug expression ensured he'd do a number on this trial. He loved the seamier side of life and saw it as his mission to expose it, to toss it like fodder to the unimaginative masses. Most likely, he'd toss them Jennifer, too.

In front of the press sat Lisa Walker, grieving widow of the deceased, and a walking stereotype of the blonde bimbo. Red, pouty lips lay below an ample nose and heavily lined eyelids fringed with false eyelashes weeping mascara. Her black suit was cut in a low V, and Jennifer wanted to lean forward and offer her a little advice. They meant for you to wear a tank top under that jacket. But why bother? Her answer, no doubt, would be I know.

She tore her gaze from Lisa's tear-streaked face to look at the defense table. Bile gathered in her throat. Dear Mrs. Walker—the first Mrs. Walker—her white hair framing her angelic face like a halo, her tiny body swallowed by a padded chair, stared back at her wistfully, expectantly. Brave, surprising Mrs. Walker. If she had killed her former husband, no doubt he deserved it. After all, Jennifer trusted Mrs. Walker's judgment. Too bad Fulton County, Georgia, didn't.

The guards passed a hand signal, and Jennifer watched as one of them slipped through the back doors. She caught a glimpse of the crowd teeming like bacteria in the hall outside. A low rumble traveled across the room and reverberated back again. Something was finally happening.

The judge sat up straight, repositioned the microphone, and motioned the lawyers back to their places. Jennifer felt her blood race through her veins at breakneck speed, a flush filling her cheeks.

The Honorable T. S. Leonard shook his head as the defense lawyer's mouth opened. I've heard all the arguments I intend to consider, and I have my ruling. The prosecution will be allowed to treat Miss Marsh as a hostile witness.

He turned to Jennifer. That means the prosecution may ask you leading questions that require only a yes or no answer.

Jennifer opened her mouth, but the judge again shook his head. Only yes or no. I hope I need not remind you again that invoking the Fifth Amendment is a privilege reserved only for people who could be accused of having committed a crime, not for someone reluctant to give testimony. Miss Marsh, you are still under oath.

He didn't need to remind her. That had been the problem from the beginning. Jennifer had sworn on the Bible. To God. She couldn't lie. She'd been reared a good Baptist girl. God would never forgive her, or, at least, never forget. But how could she forgive herself if it were her testimony that sent that wonderful little woman to her execution?

The judge was speaking. You may proceed. He nodded to the prosecution.

Arlene Jacobs stood. She was short, painfully thin, and dressed in an expensive, beige linen suit. She looked like she hadn't fed for some time, and Jennifer was about to become her dinner.

Ms. Jacobs smiled a wicked, triumphant smile. All right. Now, Ms. Marsh. Shall we try this again? Did you or did you not, on the night of the murder, travel to Edgar Walker's estate and come upon the defendant, Mrs. Emma Walker, in proximity to Edgar Walker's deceased body, holding a bloody knife that was later determined to be the murder weapon?

Jennifer closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Even Maxie Malone couldn't get out of this one. There was nothing left to do except answer the question. Yes, she said, I did, but—

Chapter 2

Sam was not happy, and he was making no effort to hide it. Jennifer noted an unnatural clench to his jaw as he glanced in the side mirror of the Honda and threw his hands up at the car in front of them before blending with the traffic traveling south on I-75 toward Macon.

He hadn't said a word to her since they'd left the courthouse, and that was just fine. She didn't want to talk to him either. If it weren't for Jaimie, she would have given up men long ago. Of course, it didn't help that every time she got close to Sam her biological clock started bonging like Big Ben.

Her hand found the flat of her stomach. Jaimie, her unborn child, was impatient for a father, and Sam was a prime candidate for the job. But until Jennifer proved herself as a mystery writer and until she was absolutely, utterly, and completely certain that Sam was the one, Jaimie would have to remain an unfertilized egg. Fatherhood was not reversible. Once those chromosomes were joined, there would be no going back, no returning them to K Mart for defective parts or unpleasant characteristics like spurts of insensitivity. No, Jaimie would simply have to wait until Jennifer was sure, sure she was ready for marriage, and sure Sam was the right man.

Normally, he had all sorts of qualities to recommend him, but he did have his moods—like now—when he could be totally unsympathetic.

On that witness stand, she'd had to say what she did. It was the right thing to do. Justice was worth fighting for regardless of the consequences, and if he couldn't understand—

I had to go to three different ATM machines before I found one that would take my card, Sam said.

Interesting that he could talk at all with all that tension in his face. She'd prefer to ignore him, but she couldn't. As much as she hated to admit it, she owed him big time. She could be spending the night in jail.

It's only two hundred dollars, Jennifer offered in the most saccharin voice she could manage. I'll pay you back next week.

Money. It was always getting in the way. Why, they wouldn't even let people have food without it.

I've got a catering job with Dee Dee next Wednesday. That should cover it.

At least Sam got a regular pay check. She had to rely on the social calendar of Macon's elite for her money, that and the little she got from the trust fund from her mom and dad's estate. And the pittance in royalties she split with Sam for their non-fiction book, The Channel 14 Murders.

Being an unpublished mystery writer was expensive—all those toner cartridges, not to mention reams and reams of paper, writers' conferences, boxes and boxes of tissues for when those rejections came in, as well as—

Contempt of court, Jennifer. The judge explained to you as simply as he could. You were to answer yes or no, nothing else. And what was all that nonsense about freedom of speech you were spouting as they led you out?

Jennifer sighed. She knew exactly how a court of law worked—at least how it was supposed to work. She had watched all the old Perry Mason reruns. She'd even written a marvelous courtroom scene in her Maxie Malone sequel, and there was no Arlene Jacobs standing up to squelch Maxie's brilliant revelation.

Okay, so I'm a little behind on Georgia law.

Georgia?

All right, then, law. Are you satisfied? She slumped back against the upholstery of the Honda.

Sam had that infuriating fixation on accuracy. Must be part of his journalistic training. That's why she preferred writing fiction. She could create any characters she wanted. And she would have deleted Arlene Jacobs—before she'd had a chance to object to her testimony. Where was her sense of sisterhood, anyway? The woman's pores leaked testosterone.

It was going to be a long ride back to Macon, eighty miles, and she had no desire to spend it carping at Sam. He was a good guy and not bad looking, especially when he combed back his dark hair and a few strands escaped to fall over his right eye. And those eyes. They were the deepest, darkest blue.

She shook her head. It was best not to concentrate on Sam's good points when he was angry with her. After all, he had a few faults of his own—like his complete lack of empathy. She might go down for defending Mrs. Walker, but she would do so with her dying breath. That sweet little woman had practically saved her life when she had been accused of murder, and there was no way she would abandon Mrs. Walker now.

Jennifer turned and stared out the car window, the lush green of kudzu whizzing past her, and thought, if only she'd ignored that phone call from Mae Belle in the wee hours of that terrible Monday morning. If only she had insisted she go back to bed and leave her alone…

Jennifer shook her head. Mae Belle had been worried, really worried. And she had been, too. She shuddered and tried to remember, hoping somehow to dredge up something from the events of the past several months that might help her piece together what really happened that night, the night that Edgar Walker got himself killed.

It had been close to three in the morning when the telephone had rung, waking her from a sound sleep and setting Muffy, her greyhound, off on one of her frantic back and forth fits around the apartment.

Jennifer didn't function well in the middle of the night, never had, and she was in the midst of one of those cockeyed dreams that, in her woozy state, seemed like a great plot for a novel. It left her trying to remember the story which had something to do with a hermit, a swamp, poisoned mushrooms, and a siren that went off at regular intervals—undoubtedly a bestseller—as she groped for the phone.

What? she croaked into the receiver.

Breathless gasps came across the wire.

You've got the wrong number. That would be 1-900-GET-LOST.

Jennifer started to hang up when she heard a dainty voice squeak out, Please, dear. Please, this is Mae Belle, Emmie Walker's friend. I'm afraid something's happened to her. You're the only one I could think of at the moment who has a car, you see, and well… The pause was so long, Jennifer thought Mae Belle might have passed out, or worse yet, passed away. The woman had to be close to eighty.

She sat up in bed and pulled the phone into her lap. Mae Belle, she demanded, are you there?

She left a little before midnight, you see, and said she'd be straight back, no later than one-thirty. And here it is three. Her cell phone goes straight to voice mail, although she usually turns it off when she's out on her adventures. But still, it can't be good, not good at all.

Jennifer shook the last bits of her dream from her mind, pushed Muffy down from the side of the bed where she was licking her kneecaps, and let what Mae Belle was trying to say penetrate her consciousness. Something had happened to Mrs. Walker.

Where did she go? Jennifer asked.

To the estate, of course.

Of course. "What estate?" Jennifer's mind was not functioning sufficiently well to draw conclusions, especially from facts not in record.

Her husband Edgar's, just south of the city.

If she remembered correctly, the Walkers had divorced years ago and were not on the most amicable terms. What is she doing there?

Oh, my. I'm not quite sure. The last time it was to turn the water in the swimming pool a rather lurid red, and the time before that had something to do with chickens, but I don't exactly know what—

"Are you saying Mrs. Walker was playing pranks?" Jennifer asked.

That's such a juvenile word, now isn't it? No, I think Emmie would prefer to say she was putting a little interest into Edgar's rather dull existence.

How thoughtful of her.

Jennifer rubbed her face briskly with the palm of her hand. She had a feeling she wouldn't be going back to bed any time soon.

"And you called me because..."

Someone must go see, I'm afraid, and none of us here have a way out there. You could hardly expect us to go by bus, now could you?

When, exactly, had Jennifer's expectations come into play here? Besides, she was a staunch supporter of public transportation.

How did Mrs. Walker get there?

She has a special arrangement with a taxi service. She supplies them with a beeper for when she's ready to be picked up. I called them, but I'm afraid they claimed she never beeped. A sob came across the line, followed by a throat clearing and a distant voice saying something about buck up.

We're just asking that you cruise by, dear, Mae Belle continued, to see if Emmie is waiting beside the road.

We?

Jessie's with me, of course. She sends her love.

She would. Jessie was the epitome of a finely aged Southern belle, Scarlet O'Hara with white hair.

You do realize I'm in Macon, in Macon sleeping, and it is three in the morning.

Of course. It's not that far from you. I'll give you directions. It couldn't take you more than, say, half an hour or so.

Chapter 3

Or so translated to an hour and fifteen minutes.

Edgar had done pretty well for himself as proprietor of the Down Home Grill restaurant chain. Not only could he afford to keep ex-Emmie in the luxurious comfort of O'Hara's Tara, one of Atlanta's most exclusive condominiums, but he had grounds, guarded by a high fence, that ran on for an indecent length of road.

Jennifer pulled her little Volkswagen Beetle off to the side of the pavement near the large gate, stopped the engine, took up a flashlight, and got out. Pole lights illuminated the area.

What could Mrs. Walker possibly be up to this time? Jennifer looked around. No sign of her. She'd hoped to find her friend waiting to be rescued, a