Love Can Be Murder

By Marilyn Rausch and Mary Donlon

Chip Collingsworth, a popular crime writer and newest resident of Turners Bend, Iowa, is working hard on his next thriller, Mind Games, when dead bodies show up. Soon Chip is caught up in the search for a real-life murderer, as he faces a looming publication deadline and navigates a bumpy road to romance with Jane Swanson, town veterinarian. Once again, real life mirrors fiction in Chip’s novel, as the lovely FBI agent, Jo Schwann, investigates a series of gruesome murders in the Twin Cities and her fragile romance with Dr. John Goodman encounters a frightening turn of events. This novel-within-a-novel sequel to Headaches Can Be Murder is full of twists and turns, mistaken identities and romantic missteps, proving that love indeed can be murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Jun 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780878399192

Marilyn Rausch

Marilyn Rausch and Mary Donlon are both members of The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where they met in a fiction writing class. Mary, a CPA in a previous life, resides in the Twin Cities area with her husband and twin daughters. Marilyn is a retired market research consultant and adult basic education teacher. She is the mother of two adult children and the grandmother of four.  Look for the sequel to Headaches Can Be Murder coming in 2013. 

Book preview

Minnesota

Praise for Headaches Can Be Murder

A fast-paced mystery/thriller with an innovative plot that will keep readers guessing until the exciting climax.

Christopher Valen, award winning author of Bad Weeds Never Die

For their debut, the writing duo of Rausch and Donlon deliver an interesting story within a story that flirts with high tech science in a small town.

Julie Kramer, author of the highly-awarded Riley Spartz series

Comments from readers of Headaches Can Be Murder, the first book in the Can Be Murder Series:

A roller coaster ride with some murders, some romance, some mystery, some heartache and lots of humor throughout. Loved it!

A great read … funny, clever and oh so entertaining.

A romp that leads from intense to bucolic and back again."

Definitely a must read by two sharp up-and-coming authors.

The two story structure is fresh and beautifully done.

I can’t wait for the sequel.

Dedication

For my dad, who told the best stories, and for my mom, who taught me to cherish my family and friends. MJD

For my children, Edward and Ela, who keep me grounded and make me very proud. MJR

Copyright © 2013 Marilyn Rausch and Mary Donlon

ISBN 978-0-87839-919-2

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition, June 2013

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

Acknowledgements

Once again, we’d like to sing the praises of our two amazing writers groups, who offered terrific guidance and cheered us along the way. We send our thanks to Kathy, Lesley, Linda, Nico, Deb, Jane and Maureen.

Our sincere appreciation goes to our editor, Cathy Pate, who jumped into the fray just when we needed the her most.

Our gratitude goes out to the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension for taking us on a fascinating tour, along with a special thanks to Eldon, who so patiently answered all our weapons questions.

To our fearless leaders at North Star Press, thanks for making our bucket-list wishes come true!

And, last but not least, we want to send our love to all our family and friends who have made this journey such a joy.  Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

They say it’s the number of people I killed. I say it’s the principle.

-Aileen Wuornos, Florida killer executed in 2002

She isn’t missing. She’s at the farm right now.

-Edward Gein, Wisconsin murderer and body snatcher

Chapter One

Turners Bend, Iowa

Population 932

Mid-July

So, Chip, I hear Jane turned you down. Sorry, pal."

Chip Collingsworth removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. His head began to throb at the temples, and his stomach churned. Who told you, Iver? I hope for our sake not too many people know.

Too late. You’ve been in Turners Bend for almost a year now. You should know better. Oh, there may be a few bachelor farmers who haven’t heard yet, but they’ll know after the VFW fish fry on Friday night. But don’t worry, the people in this town won’t spread it around or make you or Jane uncomfortable.

Chip was astounded at the irony of Iver’s comment. Apparently there was no one left in town to tell. The whole town now knew that he had proposed to Jane Swanson, the town’s veterinarian, on the Fourth of July, and she’d said No. In addition to saying No she said, I can’t marry you or anyone else right now. I hope we can just be friends. Your past, my past, my children. They’re all problematic. I need time. Chip knew the cruelest words in a relationship were just friends. It was a blow to his ego and an arrow to his lovesick heart. No woman had refused his proposal before, and he’d been married and divorced three times. He had a perfect proposal record, although admittedly, a poor marriage record. Does the whole town know that, too?

He thought he had left that all behind in Baltimore, but now he wasn’t sure. Last year he had wiped his slate clean and started a new life in Iowa. A life completely and utterly unlike his former existence. But vestiges of it kept rearing their ugly heads like the stupid arcade game, Whac-A-Mole, where you bop a mole on the head and it pops up in another hole.

He and Iver sat in silence at the counter of the Bun, Turners Bend’s café extraordinaire, the home of Iowa’s best and biggest cinnamon rolls. Their rear ends warmed the red Naugahyde-covered stools that had been softened by the behinds of thousands of patrons … town folks who had sipped coffee and eaten homemade pie at the counter since the early 1950s.

Iver was Turners Bend’s Incredible Hulk, a man of tremendous proportions. Burly was the best word Chip could think of to describe Iver. He was gentle and unassuming, and above all, generous beyond words. Not only would he give you the shirt off his back; he might give you three million dollars, as he had done recently to bail out the town’s largest industry—a wind turbine company now named after him. Chip had learned you can’t judge a book by the blurbs on the cover, and it was just as true when it came to Iver Ingebretson.

At five-ten and 190 pounds, Chip felt like a featherweight contender next to Iver. When he first met him, Chip was intimidated by Iver’s size alone. Now, much to Chip’s amazement, they were best buds. Sometimes it amused him to imagine Iver in his own past life—Iver at his exclusive prep school, Iver clubbing with him in New York, Iver sailing on the Chesapeake with his father, a noted neurosurgeon.

Bernice put two white mugs down on the counter and filled them with strong, black coffee. It was the kind of coffee that left dark sludge at the bottom of the cup, a brew many patrons doctored with lots of cream and sugar. No trendy coffee drinks, no artificial sweeteners, no non-dairy creamer in little disposable cups at the Bun, Only the real stuff, according to Bernice, the Bun’s only waitress.

Pinned to Bernice’s uniform was a button that read: Best Buns in Iowa. What will it be this morning, boys? she asked as she ran a well-worn rag over the gray Formica counter in front of them. Bernice never wrote down an order. She usually knew what her customers wanted, sometimes before they opened their mouth.

Just a cinnamon roll for me, Bernice.

Sorry, we’re out of rolls, Chip. You know Thursdays are BOGO days. When customers buy one and get one free, we sell out by 8:30 in the morning. By the way, what did you do with the ring?

So much for being discreet and not making me uncomfortable.

I’d rather not discuss it, Bernice. Just give me an order of wheat toast.

Well, if you ask me, I’d hang on to that ring. Jane will come around. You two are a match made in heaven … just like Romeo and Juliet.

Chip was fairly confident Bernice and Shakespeare were not well-acquainted, but nonetheless, it further dampened his spirits. He was a successful crime writer, but a failure at love. And a writer is only as good as his next novel, or so said Lucinda Patterson, his literary agent. Book three of his Dr. John Goodman series was not going well. To be truthful, it wasn’t going at all. Writer’s block had taken up residence in his head.

Soon Lucinda would start her relentless pressure tactics. He had struggled to finish book two, Brain Freeze, and missed his deadline. Then Lucinda turned around and put a tighter timetable on Mind Games. The woman would be waterboarding him soon if he didn’t produce the first chapter or two. To say his agent was aggressive and pushy was an understatement. She was attractive and classy. Her designer clothes reeked of sophistication and success. But, deep down she was a clawing hellcat, and he had wounds to prove it. Yet, he couldn’t deny a great deal of his success was due to Lucinda.

From the corner of his eye he saw Flora Fredrickson, city clerk and wife of the police chief, move across the café with her coffee mug in hand. Winding her way among the tables, her ample hips bumped into chairs and her black knit pants were stretched to the max. She plopped on the stool next to Chip and placed her pudgy hand with hot pink, lacquered fingernails on his arm. He braced himself.

You rushed it, dear. After I worked so hard on my matchmaking, too. Fools rush, I suppose. Your track record isn’t stellar, of course, but not to worry; Flora will work her magic again. It will just take more time. Flowers are in order, don’t you think? she said, as she patted his arm.

To divert Flora’s babbling, Chip ignored her question and brought up her favorite topic—politics. What do you think about the two women candidates for president, Flora?

I tell you, it just fries my bacon! We finally have women candidates for president and they turn out to be idiots. It’s a fact that women are a hell of a lot smarter than men. There are more women than men in this country, and we would be much better off if one of them was president … except not one of those morons.

You know what I think you should do, Flora? You should run for Congress, Iver piped in.

Well, I very well might do just that. I think I would make a very good congresswoman. I’m a lot like Hillary, and we all know what a smart cookie she is.

On second thought, I don’t know. What with all those extra-marital affairs going on, like in the legislature up in Minnesota, you might get yourself into a pickle, Iver said.

He began to laugh and Flora punched him in the arm, which only made him laugh harder. She turned her attention back to Chip.

You need a haircut … you’re looking a little shaggy. Now as I was saying about Jane …

"I know you’re well-meaning, Flora, but Jane apparently needs some time and space. Plus, I’m preoccupied right now. The movie version of The Cranium Killer, my first book, premieres next spring and the publication date for Brain Freeze is this December. So I’ve got a lot on my plate."

Well, far be it from me to meddle, Flora said as she slid off the stool and sashayed back to her table of cronies, which included several local business owners and her husband, Police Chief Walter Frederickson.

Iver chuckled. I’ve never known a woman to meddle more than Flora Fredrickson. My Mabel would never do that, although she did say something about inviting that ‘poor boy’ to dinner along with Jane, he said with a sly smile on this face.

Chip stared into the glass pie case as Bernice loaded the day’s special, strawberry rhubarb. The mirror behind the counter reflected the café’s tables and booths. He studied the morning’s clientele.

Out front I saw lots of pickups with mounted shotguns and dogs. Those guys look like hunters, said Chip, nodding to a table of men wearing hunting caps and khaki shirts with patches on the pocket. What season is it? he asked Iver.

I take it you’re not a hunter. Can’t hunt anything in July. Water fowl season doesn’t start until the end of September. Those guys are on their way to the Outdoorsman Hunting Club in Webb. Probably going there to work with their retrievers. Iver lifted his cup and signaled Bernice for a refill.

Maybe what you need, Chip, is a hobby to take your mind off Jane. That Runt of yours is a born retriever. You could whistle-train him. He’d make a fine bird dog.

Not sure hunting is for me. Although, I must admit Runt could use some obedience training. You have a hobby, Iver?

Well, I guess you could say my collection of Escher lithographs is a hobby.

You never cease to amaze me, said Chip shaking his head. You collect Escher prints?

Yup, got a few. Only they’re not prints, they’re originals.

Just when Chip thought he had Iver figured out, the guy would hit him with a stun gun. Escher originals no less. I’d like to own a few, even one.

Iver drained his cup and put some change on the counter. Well, I better get to my road maintenance duties. Some fool teenager took out the stop sign on County Road 25. Second time I’ve had to replace it this summer. See you around, Chip.

Chip’s toast arrived and he took a few bites. He looked at his hair in the mirror behind the counter. He didn’t mind the curls on the back of his neck. What he was less pleased about were the gray hairs which had started to crop up among the dark blond.

Between Jane’s rejection and the mounting pressure to write, he had lost his appetite. He finished his coffee, and headed home to his yellow farmhouse. It was the only yellow farmhouse in Boone County, and his color choice had sparked lots of comments around town. He didn’t care. Every time he drove up to his house, it made him smile.

As he sped along the gravel road, a cloud of dust swirled behind his Volvo. So far July had been hot and dry, much to the corn farmers’ liking. He opened the sunroof and windows and stuck his elbow out the side. He was ready for the wave that seemed to be the peculiar custom along this stretch. When passing a vehicle or a person on the road or at their mailbox, a wave was considered good manners. There were several wave styles. He especially enjoyed the finger wave … just one finger lifted off of the steering wheel—it made him feel like a true Iowan. He stared at the cloudless, china-blue sky and watched a solitary hawk swoop and soar like a glider plane. It dove into a field after its prey … both majestic and savage at the same time.

Chip’s dark mood suddenly returned, and he began to percolate and brew evil thoughts about the fate of his hero, Dr. John Goodman. He was sick of the hero in his crime novels, and sick of John’s perfect life as a famous neurosurgeon and crime solver. He had grown to hate John’s handsome face and six-pack abs, and he was envious of his romance with Jo, the fetching FBI agent.

* * *

July 25, 10:30 a.m.

Lucinda,

Working away on Mind Games. Thinking of ending this trilogy with having John murdered. First chapter to follow soon.

Chip

July 25, 10:32 a.m.

ARE YOU NUTS?! You cannot kill off the hero. That would be like John Sandford offing Lucas Davenport or William Kent Krueger fatally wounding Cork O’Connor. He’s your money ticket. You can put him in danger or even maim him, but he must survive for more novels to come. Get your head on straight and send me a copy. SOON.

Lucinda

Chip read Lucinda’s reply, which was as acerbic as usual, and then sat down at his computer determined to make Dr. John Goodman suffer as much as he himself was suffering. Living vicariously through his alter ego was not working for him anymore. He re-read the epilogue of Brain Freeze and got an idea of where he could begin. His conversation with Iver about hunting popped into his head as he wrote the opening scene of the novel he had entitled Mind Games.

Chapter Two

Mind Games, by Charles Edward Collingsworth III

East Central, Minnesota

Late July

This was his favorite part of hunting. The pre-dawn anticipation. Perfect stillness, completely unobserved by his prey. Attuned to every nuance of movement.

He had already scoped out the location, watching for behavioral patterns. It took him less than a week to figure out the habits of his prey. Enough preparation to come closer and blend in. Patiently waiting in the small copse of trees on the edge of the clearing, he emptied his head of all things but his intended target.

A light, welcome breeze lifted the hair that peeked out from his dark green baseball hat. It was already humid, although the sun had yet to make its appearance. Minnesota was in the middle of a heat wave, with temperatures averaging in the upper nineties for the past week. The Hunter removed his hat to wipe the band of sweat which had gathered on his forehead and pulled his shirt away from his body. Cupping his hand around the face of his watch, he shielded the glow. 5:15 a.m. Not much longer. He felt calm and in control.

No movement around the perimeter.

He had concluded his reconnaissance yesterday. It was a good feeling—a job well done. There was no better feeling than the one right before the kill.

No hurry, though. The hunt was to be savored. His mother used to say that life was about the journey, not the destination. His lips curled up into a smile. What would Ma say if she could see my journey now?

It had been an ebony night, with heavy clouds obscuring the thin slice of moon overhead. Darkness had always been his friend, but now the light outside had turned to a gray-blue hue and he was beginning to make out more distinct shapes through the trees. He raised his rifle, and peered down the sights, looking for any sign of his prey. Still too early.

A crow cawed behind him and he heard the distant buzz of a car on the road. He lowered his rifle and crouched down. It was still dark enough to obscure his movements, but he was taking no chances. He was a careful man.

As he pushed aside a small branch to have a better view, it snapped back and grazed his cheek. He let out a quiet curse, and reached up to touch the scrape. He pulled his finger away with a stripe of blood smeared across it. He licked it off with the tip of his tongue, savoring the saltiness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he detected a flash of color. He raised his gun once again and searched the trail. His heart pounded in his chest. There! He removed the safety and peered down the scope. The rising sun blazed on its head, reflecting strands of copper. His target was moving rapidly toward him. He took a deep breath and released it slowly as he began to squeeze the trigger.

Agent Jo Schwann looked beautiful in his crosshairs.

Chapter Three

Turners Bend

August

Chip bought a dog whistle and the book, How to Train Your Retriever. He quickly learned that he would not be able to break Honey, his golden retriever, and Runt, her son, from their bad habits of sleeping on the furniture and begging at the table. Runt, however, loved the whistle-training sessions with his master. He raced to the side yard whenever he saw the whistle in Chip’s hand. In no time he learned to come, sit, heel, stay and retrieve. Honey found a spot in the shade of the red maple and watched like a soccer mom in the bleachers. The training sessions were not only diversions for Chip, but also his excuse for slacking off on his real work … writing Mind Games.

Chip was putting Runt through his paces when he heard the rumble of a pickup in the distance. Soon he saw Jane’s rusty red truck turn off the main road and head down the long drive to his farmhouse. Their friendship had been somewhat tense and awkward the past month. Chip cautioned himself not to be too hopeful as he watched the truck come to a stop by the shed.

He was disappointed to see it was not Jane, but her son, Sven, who jumped out of the cab and strode toward him and the dogs. During the past year Chip had seen Sven mature from a gawky, misdirected teenager into a self-confident young man. He was tall and lanky and wore his reddish brown hair styled like the pop singer whose name always escaped Chip. His jeans were tight and his muscle shirt revealed a few chest hairs. Chip liked the boy, and Sven had seemed to grow closer to him since the absence of the boy’s father.

Hey Chip. I’m just stoppin’ in to say ‘bye’ before mom takes me up to Minneapolis for orientation week at MCAD.

I’ve heard good things about the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. I’m sure you’ll do well. You have time for a Coke?

Sure. Sven sat on the back steps waiting for Chip, who entered the house and returned with two cans.

What about your friend Leif? What’s he up to? asked Chip.

He dropped out of school the month before graduation, and I haven’t seen much of him this summer. We’ve been friends for so long, but it’s hard to hang on to friends who are going down a different path.

I, for one, am happy about the path you’ve chosen. You’re going to do great things, make great films. I just know it.

Thanks, Chip. I won’t forget how much you’ve helped me. Sven took a sip from his pop can, as he watched the dogs. Hey, looks like Runt’s turning into a fine bird dog. Dad and I would’ve loved a dog like him for duck hunting. We had old Archie, but he died before I got my first shotgun.

The two sat, drinking their Cokes and watching Runt nose around the yard. A wasp buzzed around Chip’s can, and he shooed it away. The heat of the sun made their cans sweat. Sven finished his pop and crushed the can with one hand. He tossed it into a nearby garbage bin and said, No rim … two points, pumping his arm.

Chip debated whether or not to broach the issue of Sven’s missing father and Jane’s ex-husband, Hal Swanson, who had skipped the country with several federal agencies on his trail. Since Sven had brought up the subject, he decided the time might be right. I’m sorry about your father, Sven. It must be hard for you. Have you heard from him?

Sven stared off into the distance, taking a few moments to respond. No. I know he’s done some bad things, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t miss him. Ingrid and Mom refuse to talk about him. Why did he do it, Chip?

Honestly, I don’t know. Sometimes it’s just a slippery slope. One thing leads to another. And, his drinking probably clouded his judgment.

I didn’t tell Mom or Ingrid this, but two undercover DEA agents came to the house right after the Fourth of July and questioned me about Dad. They asked if I knew where he was and if I knew anything about drug money. I told them I didn’t know anything and didn’t believe Dad was involved in buying or selling drugs. They kind of creeped me out. They were dressed like migrant workers, but I could tell they were packing heat.

Chip chuckled and shook his head. Packing heat … I think you have been watching too many TV crime shows.

Or reading too many crime novels. They both laughed.

The FBI said several federal agencies would be involved, so I wouldn’t worry about it, said Chip. In fact, I remember those two guys and wondered who they were. Undercover DEA agents, huh? I never would have guessed.

Sven hesitated, and then said, I’m sort of worried about Mom. Don’t mean to pry, but what’s with you two? I thought you had like a romance going on.

So did I, but maybe she just needs some time to work through things. I don’t have the best track record with women. Piece of advice for you … stay away from those pretty girls at MCAD.

Sven laughed. That’s one piece of advice I probably won’t follow. He reached into his back pocket. Oh, I brought something to show you. I found it this summer when I was working with the Historical Society on that documentary.

Sven pulled an old, sepia-colored photograph from his jeans pocket and handed it to Chip. Seems Turners Bend had a theater for movies and stage shows back in the 1930s. It was named the Bijou. It was in the empty building next to Harriet’s House of Hair. Sylvia Johnson told me she remembers it from when she was a girl, and that it was a grand place with gilt fixtures and a crystal chandelier and red velvet curtains. She said the owner died some years ago, and she heard the marquee that was taken down is stored inside.

Sven returned the photo to his pocket. "Wouldn’t it be cool if it was restored and The Cranium Killer movie was shown at its grand re-opening? Maybe the director or some of the stars would even come to town. If I weren’t going off to school, I’d get the town to do it."

Chip could sense the boy’s excitement, and it was catching. That’s a great idea. Maybe I can help.

Just then Runt began to bark and chase something across the yard. He stopped at the woodpile and stuck his nose between the logs. Sven ran to the pile and pulled a baby kitten out of the gap.

Chip grabbed his whistle and blew the commands for ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ and Runt complied. Sven returned to the steps with the kitten clinging