Kill Smartie Breedlove

By Joni Rodgers

“Smart, sassy, and hugely entertaining.”—Reviews by Leila

Recently widowed Shep Hartigate is a dishonored cop reduced to chasing cheating spouses for a ruthless Houston divorce lawyer. Free-spirited Smartie Breedlove is a pulp fiction writer on a mission to find out who's killing the inconvenient exes of Texas, including her BFF, Charma, a notorious centerfold with a heart of gold. Problematic lovers, long-suffering family, and stalwart friends (two-and four-legged) chime in, along with Smartie’s characters, who keep jumping the turnstile between fiction and reality.

Plenty of publishing industry shade is thrown in this deliciously quirky whodunit full of hard-boiled plot twists and insider homages to Agatha Christie, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Daphne du Maurier. As Smartie and Shep maneuver to stay alive, every clue leads to another question. Does Shep’s gorgeous but unscrupulous employer really have a secret bimbo/mimbo hit list? Or is Smartie Breedlove lost in the dime novel that constantly unspools
inside her head?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joni Rodgers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985549485

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE END

From the balcony of the Lady Bird Johnson Suite on the forty-fourth floor of the Bonham Hotel, the city of Houston was an ant farm teeming with red taillights. It sheered upward and expanded outward at the speed of glass and steel, an unstoppable network of cross streets and skyscrapers, parking lots, palmy backyards, broken bayous, taco trucks, shaved-ice stands, girls in flip-flops, folks on porches. There was nothing in this corner of Southeast Texas to stop the parade of eroding neighborhoods and shiny shopping malls. Not a mountain nor a river nor a God nor much of anything until you got to the Gulf of Mexico.

From the forty-second floor, Smartie Breedlove could see it all.

Houston, the fourth most populous city in the United States, arm-wrestled Los Angeles for the dubious distinction of having the worst air quality. The metroplex was more than a hundred miles wide with six million busy people, eleven thousand restaurants, and almost as many churches. Smartie had gathered these factoids while conducting research for her first novel, Get Wilder, in which late night classic rock disc jockey Smack Wilder solves the murder of the Pentecostal televangelist with whom she’s been sleeping.

By the thirty-eighth floor, Smartie’s silk slip dress had ridden up under her arms. She wore no panties, and wickedly, she was glad for that. She’d gotten her roots done a day or two earlier and was sporting a fresh mani-pedi just a few hours old. This was good, because whatever remained of her would undoubtedly splatter YouTube and the rest within nanoseconds. Smartie’s life flashed by in the lighted windows like comic book panels: the secret struggles and boozy hijinks of her youth, fleeting lovers, book covers, contracts and rejections, fan mail and hate mail, blogs and Twitter streams, screen shots and publicity stills from movie versions of the Smack Wilder: Voice of the Graveyard Shift series.

By the twenty-first floor, her eyes were as dry as red clay on account of the wind, so she couldn’t see the couple on the eighteenth-floor balcony, but she heard the woman’s scream whip by like the startled shrill of a seagull. Loud music from a thirteenth-floor stag party rose and fell past her ear like a speeding train.

As the glass roof of the dining solarium rose up to meet her, Smartie remembered that the human brain is believed to function sixty seconds after decapitation, firing fine electric signals, searching out its last sight, registering every fast-fading sensation. She’d learned this while researching Smack Wilder #7: Splatter Cat, in which Smack solves the murder of a Jackson Pollock forger with whom she’s been sleeping. Or maybe it was Smack Wilder #9: Doggy Style, in which Smack solves the murder of the Weimaraner breeder with whom she’s been sleeping. The men in Smack’s life were handsome and caddish and rarely around long enough for a second martini. The same could be said of the men in Smartie’s life, though they were fewer and far between, and little mystery surrounded the circumstances of those hasty departures.

One man in particular did cross her mind at the moment she breached the steel-framed ceiling of the dining solarium, which gave way in a cascade of shattered glass and scattering voices.

Then whiteness.

Then darkness.

A precious presence of roses.

Sixty seconds later, Smartie Breedlove was dead.

THIRTEEN MONTHS EARLIER . . .

PART ONE

It’s a great life, if you don’t weaken.

SIR JOHN BUCHAN, FIRST BARON OF TWEEDSMUIR, AUTHOR OF THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS

CHAPTER

ONE

"T he human brain functions for up to sixty seconds after decapitation," Smartie Breedlove told the man in the dove-gray suit.

That’s disturbing, he said. If it’s true.

It’s true, she assured him. "During World War II, Pravda documented a soldier continuing a bayonet attack with his head hanging by a thread. Like that."

Smartie slid a pained glance toward the oddly angled body on the table.

Charma Nicole Bovet lay in an abstract tableau of blood and broken china, wearing a brief silk slip dress, a punch bowl, and no panties. A chilled drizzle descended through the jagged fissure Charma’s body had left in the glass roof of the Bonham Hotel’s dining solarium, and as moisture settled like dewdrops on the broken stems and bluebells of the decimated centerpiece, a soft, Charma-like aroma arose, causing Smartie’s breath to snag and form a small sob inside her chest. If the sixty-second rule held true for Charma—if her wide-open eyes did trickle information to her shattered brain for one last minute after she quite literally crashed the Smith-Putzke wedding rehearsal dinner—Smartie hoped that those last flickering images were of roses.

Do you need to sit down, Ms. Breedlove? asked the man.

Smartie nodded, bottom lip trembling. Firmly supporting her elbow, he steered her toward a table in the corner and pulled out two chairs, setting them to face each other. Smartie went for the chair with the better view of the scene, and the man seemed neither surprised nor dismayed. He offered her a linen napkin from the sideboard and then offered his card.

MARTIN SHEPARD HARTIGATE

Followed by a cell phone number.

Cryptic, Smack Wilder would say. I smelled a PI who hadn’t quite shaken the lingering niff of disgraced cop.

In less time than it took her to blow her nose on the napkin, Smartie had sized him up: Blend-into-the-woodwork gray suit. Thin Man tie. High mileage black shoes. His white shirt was clean, but not quite crisp; there was a melancholy sense of second day about it. A weathered leather notebook was stashed in his breast pocket instead of a handkerchief. He smelled pleasantly of precinct. The dark of a wooden desk drawer. Cool blue carbon paper. Black ink ribbon in an old-school typewriter. In his hand was a perfect white rose that had somehow survived the chaos. Smartie found this detail intriguing.

Folks call me Shep, he said with an easy smile.

Why are you tailing me, Detective Hartigate?

I’m tailing her. He thumbed a reverse hitchhike gesture back over his shoulder, indicating Charma. I’m a private investigator for the law firm of Salinger, Pringle, Fitch, and Edloe.

Ah. You were here to catch her cheating, Smartie bristled. To screw her with the prenup.

That was the plan, said Hartigate.

SPF & E was well known in Houston for handling high-profile divorce cases. Charma was a floozy savant married to a decrepit tycoon. No further explanation was needed.

How do you know my name? asked Smartie.

You’re famous.

Try again.

She’s famous. You’re her friend, the paperback writer.

Better.

Her lively blue eyes were sharp and intuitive, despite a swimmy skim of tears. She was remarkably small in stature, barely at his shoulder even in her black stiletto boots, but she sat up straight in her chair in a way that engaged the room around her, an act of occupation. Dressed in jeans and a suede blazer over an easy V-necked shirt, she wore no makeup except a blaze of red lipstick. Something at the corners of her Clara Bow mouth gave Shep the odd feeling that he was entertaining her. He knew that trying to schmooze her would be a waste of time.

You’re in the background on a few of her viral videos, he said.

From the club years, Smartie said wistfully. I figured everyone was focused on her foreground.

Hard to miss, said Hartigate.

That’s not a crime.

Let’s not be coy, Ms. Breedlove. A D-list centerfold marries a wealthy man in his late seventies. His family was understandably concerned.

Shep Hartigate had helmet hair, Smartie observed, and that fascinated her. He wasn’t dressed in typical biker attire, but his hair was unmistakably mashed down on top and curled out a little at the nape. A man who was willing to fly by the seat of his pants, but only with proper safety gear. This pairing of devil-take-the-hindmost adventurism with clean-underwear-just-in-case precaution appealed to Smartie. She decided to use that for Smack Wilder’s current crush.

With his impeccable dove-gray suit, Thin Man tie, and helmet hair, Tag Mason was a square-jawed, Hog-mounted rebel without a flaw.

Is Smartie Breedlove your given name? asked Shep.

Someone gave it to me.

Why?

Elmore Leonard was taken.

Shep smiled patiently.

It’s because of the candies, she said, pulling her own leather notebook from her purse to jot down the title idea and helmet hair thought. Those little sugar vertebrae.

Ms. Breedlove, how did you meet Mrs. Bovet?

We were roommates. A long time ago.

In college or . . . He paused for her to fill in the blank. "Someplace

else?"

The second one.

When did you last see Mrs. Bovet?

It’s been too long. Smartie’s eyes clouded with tears. We used to go out a lot. Then I went on the wagon. She got married. You know how it goes. Continental drift. We text now and then and say let’s do coffee or let’s do lunch or let’s pretend to walk the dog so we can watch the roofers climb up and down ladders. We took each other for granted. So that’ll be fun to live with.

Smartie played with a renegade corkscrew of blonde hair, tried to thread it behind her ear, but it immediately sprang loose, like birthday ribbon dragged across a scissor blade. Tag would die a fiery death, she decided. He would crash and burn. And she flashed on the title Dead Sexy for Smack Wilder #12.

Did she confide in you about any trouble she was having? Shep asked.

A D-list centerfold marries a wealthy man in his late seventies, said Smartie. What trouble could she be having?

Can you think of any reason for her to jump off the balcony tonight?

I can think of several reasons, but she didn’t jump, Mr. Hartigate. Don’t expect me to help you make it look like she did.

I’m not trying to make it look like anything, said Shep. I was employed to observe Mrs. Bovet, not to make judgments.

Employed by whom?

Why do you ask?

Bovet’s daughter Belinda?

What about her?

Did she hire you or did her father?

Does it make a difference?

I don’t know, Mr. Hartigate, does it?

Not to me, Shep said. My job is to gather accurate information.

And what information have you gathered?

I’m not at liberty to discuss. Shep folded his arms and frowned when he realized he was no longer the one asking the questions. Ms. Breedlove, I have no problem with this industrious young woman collecting what she earned should that horny old goat kick the bucket while still married to her, but she entered into a legal agreement with specific parameters. My job is to find out if she was in breach of that contract.

So, without making any judgments, you’ve already decided she was an unscrupulous opportunist.

Is there another kind of opportunist?

Yes! Many kinds, Smartie exclaimed. Jesus rutabagas. I know of a Baptist girl who married a rabbi when she was nineteen. Can you fathom that? A forty-nine-year-old rabbi marries a nineteen-year-old girl, Southern Baptist born and born again every summer at Bible camp. It’s not a bit unreasonable to draw whatever conclusions you might, but maybe the Baptist girl genuinely loved that rabbi. Maybe he understood her in a way other people didn’t. Maybe he thought she was worth something, and it had nothing to do with his freckle fetish. You don’t know the backstory. And I’m here to tell you, backstory is everything.

And what’s the illuminating backstory on Mrs. Bovet? asked Shep.

She was an unscrupulous opportunist. Smartie unzipped her cavernous handbag. Aren’t we all? Don’t we all gravitate toward certain people because of what they do for us? How they make us feel?

She married him for love, but she loved him for money?

It’s not that simple. People aren’t always what you think. People are a mystery.

Rummaging through the bag, she laid one item after another on the brocade table runner. Lipstick, iPhone, tampons, Scrunchies, Sharpies, scribbled notes, Starbucks receipts. Shep made a one-eyed inventory as she excavated a pack of cigarettes and a little yellow lighter.

Charma saw an opportunity to live a big life, and she worked it, you bet, said Smartie, but she genuinely adored that horny old goat. There’s not a thing in the world she wouldn’t do for him, and let me tell you, for a man his age . . . She put her hand on Shep’s arm and whispered, "He was remarkably spry."

You think he was satisfied with the situation then?

Satisfied? He was sated. Smitten. He was gelatinous in love with her, said Smartie. "They play this little game. When he gets off his flight, she sends him a text message: Catch me if you can. Then she sends him little clues, and he has to chase all over the city, buying lacy undies, chocolates, jewelry, champagne—like a scavenger hunt—getting closer and closer until he finally finds her, and then they make crazy perverse love. Does that sound like a woman who was about to kill herself? Does that sound like a man who wanted a divorce?"

Tucking a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she hitched the lighter and watched it flicker for a moment before she pulled at the flame.

It had to be Belinda, she said. She gets rid of Charma. Has the old man declared incompetent. Gets power of attorney. Gets everything. Am I right?

Nothing in Shep’s eyes confirmed or denied.

You know what’s ironic? Smartie set her chin in her hand and sighed a churlish blue wisp of smoke. "The whole Charma thing, it was all about the superficial. T and A. All anybody saw was the dumb little bunny. But I’ve never known anyone who was more willing to look beyond the superficial in other people. She actually had this weirdly nerdy side. She had a thing for guys who were smarter than they were decorative, and whatever you think about Otis Bovet, a person doesn’t get that rich without being pretty dang smart."

Too smart to get taken in by a gold digger?

I’m telling you, they genuinely loved each other. Looking past Shep’s shoulder at the swarm of worker bees from the coroner’s office, Smartie blinked back tears again. Charma was a sexpot and a thrill-seeker and a party girl and a gold digger and everything else the tabloids said about her. But beyond all that, Charma was a Hoss.

A Hoss?

"Like the big fat guy on Bonanza. A great big sweetheart, but a badass when needed. That was Charma. Mr. Bovet has a fourteen-year-old grandson with Down syndrome. Marco. Belinda’s kid. Charma was great with him. She’d take him to play laser tag and paintball. She’d talk to him, while Belinda and everybody else managed him and schlepped him around like a sack of potatoes. I suppose she understood what it felt like to be disregarded on principle."

Shep glanced at his watch and pushed the notebook back into his pocket.

I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Breedlove.

Smartie dragged on her cigarette without answering. Shep got up to leave, but a police officer standing guard at the yellow caution tape slanted a flat-handed traffic cop gesture in Smartie’s direction.

Ma’am, you can’t smoke in here, she said. And where do you think you’re going, Hartigate? I told you, we need a statement from you.

Claire, give me a break. I need to get home.

Smartie saw a definite shadow pass through the sea green part of the officer’s eyes. Above the stiffly pressed collar of her uniform, her mouth went narrow and snappish.

I don’t give a damn about your short leash, she said, one hand on the butt of her service revolver. Have a seat.

Claire.

Officer O’Connell, she corrected him. Sit your ass down, Hartigate.

Shep sighed and sat. As Officer O’Connell sauntered down the tapeline, warning off the milling paparazzi, Smartie snubbed out her cigarette on a saucer and said, Interesting.

Sit your ass down, Mason, snapped the lady in blue. The two of them were oozing chemistry like a meth lab on Three Mile Island. Interesting. The infidelity dick was a study in takes one to know one. He knew every trick in the Cheater’s Handbook. Because he wrote it.

Was Charma cheating? Smartie asked. Was she having an affair?

I’m not at liberty to discuss, said Shep.

No discussion. Blink once for yes, twice for no.

Shep folded his arms, and Smartie leaned in, scrutinizing his face.

"Was that the yes she was cheating blink? she asked. Or a normal blinking your eyes blink?"

That was the ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss’ blink.

She didn’t jump, Mr. Hartigate. I don’t know what happened here, but I know that.

The police have been up to her room. They saw no sign of foul play.

Did they see any sign of fair play? Smartie dismissed that with a flip of her hand. Give me ten minutes and a martini; I could give you six fully peopled scenarios in which a woman goes unwillingly off a balcony leaving nary a hint of foul play.

I’m sure you could, Ms. Breedlove, but courts don’t deal in pulp fiction scenarios, said Shep, and he had to rub his eyes because now that she’d made him aware of it, he felt himself batting his lashes like a debutante. Courts deal in evidence, and in this case, there isn’t any.

Did you leave any evidence? Smartie asked tartly. When you were two-timing your wife with Officer Claire, I mean.

Shep rocked back a bit in his chair. He wanted to say something sharp in retort, but there was suddenly a lump in his throat. A white-hot coal of sadness and guilt that lurked below his Adam’s apple almost all the time these days. He stood, carefully collecting that last white rose.

Backstory is not everything, he mumbled, trying to keep his face in play as he walked stiffly toward the revolving doors in the lobby, ignoring Claire O’Connell’s voice over his shoulder.

Hartigate, she warned. Sit down, or I’ll remember that you didn’t.

Shep knew for a fact that Claire O’Connell had a scalpel-sharp memory. He pushed through the door anyway, and she barreled onto the sidewalk after him.

Hartigate!

Shep wheeled and said, "What? What else do you want from me? If there’s some personal or professional price beyond—I threw myself into the goddamn volcano for you. Now all I want is to be left alone."

She looked up at him through the halogen-lit drizzle and said, Okay.

Beyond a slight, momentary quiver of her chin, the expression on her face was utterly flat and unfathomable. Shep stood for a moment, seeing not a glimmer of anything he’d ever loved about her.

Do they still talk the same shit about me downtown? he asked.

Now and then.

Don’t stick up for me.

Don’t worry.

He nodded and walked away.

Smartie Breedlove stood inside the window and watched him go. As Shep Hartigate disappeared down the teeming street, the desire for a cigarette needled up her spine, along with the need for a drink and an addiction-deep need to know.

Curiosity consumed her.

She needed to see what Charma saw on the way down: the face of the person who’d pushed her, the rapidly receding stars, the fleeting lights of the city, that last sixty seconds of truth.

CHAPTER

TWO

The half-lit kitchen was fragrant with cinnamon toast and coffee when Shep came in. He crept up the back stairs to the bedroom where Janny was sound asleep, her body curved in a protective fortress between the edge of the bed and the tiny figure in footy pajamas. She stirred only slightly when Shep kissed her lips and laid the filched white rose on the pillow beside her, but the baby puckered into the fiercely hiccuppy beginnings of a squall. Shep took him up and brushed his mouth against the impeccably soft crown of his head.

Shhhh, Charlie, he crooned. Put a cork in it, short guy.

Charlie tensed his little Buddha belly, brayed like a mule, and noisily filled his diaper.

Whoa, Shep recoiled. Let’s go see Mommy.

Like Riverdance—feet moving fast while the upper body stays stone frozen—Shep supported Charlie’s hatchling neck as he hurried down the hall.

Libby? He called softly at the bathroom door. Candygram.

There was a slosh of bathwater, creak of the linen closet door, and a moment of whatever Shep didn’t care to imagine his little sister doing before Libby opened the door, piling a towel on top of her head.

Hey, big bro. How’s your day?

Long. Strange. How’s Janny? asked Shep.

Hypoxic. BP’s very low.

He proffered the soiled baby at arm’s length. Happy Mother’s Day.

Wheesh. Stinky McGee. Libby puffed a gentle raspberry against Charlie’s tiny palm. Change him while I check on Janny, will you, please? I’ll be down to nurse him in a minute.

Shep made a tight sound in the back of his throat but headed downstairs holding his nephew against his chest. He wasn’t eager to see what was inside the diaper, but it was a small price to pay. Libby was a registered nurse, and despite the lousy timing—or perhaps