Beautiful in Death

By Caroline Taylor

She doesn't exactly wish her cheating, lying, thieving business partner would die, but when Roxy Halstead finds Mandy Garson's body on the floor of their office, she figures she'll be the main suspect.

If the police discover dark secrets from her past, she'll go to jail. Which might be the safest place, she soon discovers, aft

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tuxtails Publishing, LLC
• Release date: May 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957211091

Book preview

Chapter One

Thursday, April 4, 2019

It’s not exactly a dark and stormy night when I sneak into my own office, but it sure feels like it. I shouldn’t be here. Snooping. On my business partner. It’s her fault I’m forced to do this, although I’m sure she wouldn’t agree. And, yeah, as I know from bitter personal experience, it’s human nature to blame somebody else for your own misdeeds. But I’m not the one who’s been stealing from the business. If Mandy shows up, no problem. Forgetting to water the plant in my office should be a good enough excuse. Besides, it’s true. If she catches me going through her desk, however, I’ll have some explaining to do.

Won’t happen. She’s at a big charity gala. The kind where you have to pay big bucks to enjoy the dinner and show. I hope she didn’t spend our money. But it’s the reason I’m here. Roxanne Halstead, secret agent on a mission to save the world. My world, anyway. I’m no private eye. I know nothing about finance, and I’m not exactly experienced, considering I’m only twenty-five. But I’m the one who’s going to suffer from Amanda call me Mandy Garson’s misdeeds. If I don’t find out what my partner’s been up to, I’m out of a job.

I could have just confronted Mandy, only we’re no longer speaking to one another, thanks to the thing with Toby. Since she keeps the books, she should have told me we are in the red and have been for over a year, maybe even longer. I only discovered it when the bill collectors started calling. Our offices are so close together, I could hear her offering lame excuses like clients not paying us on time. I knew it wasn’t true. Our little niche business is booming, even growing. When it comes to keyboarding boring but important data, companies are increasingly outsourcing the work. It keeps their overhead low, especially in terms of employee benefits. We, on the other hand, employ freelancers, which keeps our fees reasonable and also lowers our overhead. Most of the freelancers work from home, so our office in a fifties-style concrete building on Wisconsin Avenue in Tenleytown is tiny. It has only three rooms: a reception area, my office, and Mandy’s office.

But back to the red ink. Yeah, I should have either examined her accounting more carefully or insisted we outsource the job to a CPA, which meant we’d both have to scrutinize the accountant’s work and would have cost money. The old adage about being penny wise often floats through my head when I think about it. But I had done nothing constructive. Math, accounting, bookkeeping? So not my thing. For quite a while, I’ve trusted my former friend with our finances. Now, I don’t trust her with anything.

What do I think I’ll find in her office? I’m not sure. Except, there has to be some kind of clue. More money is going out than coming in, obviously. Mandy has to be spending—or perhaps saving?—funds meant to cover our expenses. I know she’s a clothes horse, but would she ruin the business to indulge her habit when the end result will be no income at all?

I once thought we were very close, but the only thing I know about Mandy is her head-turning beauty, which is truly only skin deep. She is not a likable person. Her ex despises her. The people she’s fired, which for our freelancers has mostly meant being ghosted, quite often feel they’ve been shafted. She doesn’t seem to have any friends, other than me before the betrayal. She has no love life to speak of, only the occasional male version of arm candy, like whoever she’s roped into accompanying her to tonight’s gala. She’s never said a word about her parents. Either they are dead or estranged or whatever. I seem to recall her mentioning a sister who lives somewhere in the Midwest and doesn’t even send birthday wishes. There’s some real bad history between those two, although Mandy has never divulged the details.

Luckily, though, she did divulge her password. I should have it in case she got hit by a bus, she’d said. Did I reciprocate? You bet. However, in a fit of pique after the Toby thing, I changed my mind without informing my partner. I can’t help groaning at the task I’m about to embark on, one I am ill-equipped to perform. I type the password into Mandy’s computer and locate the accounting spreadsheets. Suck it up, Roxy.

I’ve been at it for about half an hour, getting nowhere, when I hear the door to the outer office open. I quickly close the spreadsheet file so Mandy won’t think I’m snooping. I could just own up to it, have it out with her, but I’m a bit nervous about the whole confrontation thing. It hasn’t served me well in the past. Then I hear a man say, This has to be it. His voice is high-pitched, and a slight nasal twang suggests he is not from these parts. Is he talking to himself or does he have somebody with him?

When I hear him mutter, Okey-dokey, I figure the guy is alone. Or at least I hope so. Meanwhile, I’m just standing here waiting to be discovered. By the building super? The cleaning crew boss? Or worse? I barely manage to pull the door to the supply closet shut when the one to Mandy’s office opens. The swivel chair creaks as someone sits down at her desk.

The shuffle of papers, the creak of the leather chair, and the thin ribbon of light showing in the crack between the supply closet door and the carpet beyond it all indicate he’s still there. One thing for sure: He definitely has no legit reason to be here at this hour of the night. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, which makes me think he must be dead certain nobody’s in the office.

I keep trying to shift my position to straighten my legs and take pressure off my bum knee. The closet holds printer paper, toner cartridges, file folders, notepads. In other words, nothing I can use as a weapon. Although ... Mandy, being a germ-o-phobe, has stashed some cleaning supplies on the bottom shelf. If he opens the door, I'll spray him with Lysol and bash him on the head with my flashlight. I doubt I can stop the man, but the element of surprise is all I have going for me.

Oh my God. I did not shut down the computer.

Familiar iPhone chimes break the silence. Yeah? There’s a short pause, and then the intruder says, I’m busy right now. Another pause. Can’t help you. A longer pause. Give me ten minutes.

Several minutes pass, and then I hear him say, "Shit. Where is it?" There’s a screech of the chair, and then I hear file drawers opening. Good luck with that. All the business files are in my office. Although, there’s nothing preventing him from searching there too. The worrisome thing is the length of time this bozo is planning to spend doing whatever he’s doing. Another ten minutes and my knee will seize up from inactivity. I’ll be unable to move.

After what seems an eternity, something metal—file drawer? waste basket?—sounds like it’s been kicked or dropped. The lights go out, and the door clicks shut. I count to twenty and open the closet door. Flexing my knee, I finally manage to stand up. My hands are only shaking a bit as I reach Mandy’s desk. He must have been looking for something of hers. A valuable object or hard-copy document? The only way I can find out is to see if there’s anything missing. Considering it’s not my office, it’s going to be a nearly impossible task. Then I notice the dent in the filing cabinet. He must have kicked it.

Obviously, the girl has made yet another enemy here. Does it have anything to do with us bleeding red ink? And here I’ve been wondering if I was being paranoid about Mandy’s suspicious behavior or, more likely, so inflamed by jealousy I’ve been dying to nail her with some crime so awful she’ll be removed from the picture, leaving the field clear for Toby—

Oh Roxanne. Get a fucking life. You’d take the bastard back after what he did?

Chapter Two

Friday, April 5, 2019

It’s one of those spring days where the sun promises but fails to deliver. I’m shivering as I exit the Metro. It’s my fault for going coatless, for hoping it would force spring to do what it’s supposed to do. Or perhaps I’m shivering because of what happened last night. I should have called the police. Which would have raised all sorts of questions: What were you doing there so late at night? Watering my plant. Did you get a look at the burglar? No. What did the guy steal? Don’t know. Why are you bothering us?

As I walk down the street, I remember I still have to water the poor plant. But am I obliged to inform Mandy about the burglar? I don’t think he took anything, after all. Plus, it would mean speaking to her after all these months, which I’m not quite ready to do. When in doubt, punt. I’ll wait and see if she notices anything missing from her office. Then we can call the police, and I’ll pretend I wasn’t there and don’t know squat. The only thing I need to do is make sure I didn’t leave behind any traces of me being there last night. I’ve got time. Mandy never shows up until close to noon. My heart sinks as I realize I’m going to have to confront the bitch about the money thing. She’ll have some lame ass excuse about it and then accuse me of prying. If only she knew just how much.

The door to our office is open, which is odd. Is the cleaning crew running late? I call out as I walk in, but it quickly becomes a scream. Amanda Garson, the kind of woman people always notice, is lying, face up, on the floor beside her desk. Her abundant auburn hair is spread fan-shaped around her head as though she's staged an overhead shot for a shampoo commercial. Fully dressed in an Armani power suit of black linen with a green and pink silk scarf around her neck, she is sprawled, legs apart, in a most un-Mandy-like position. One black leather Bruno has come off her left foot and lies sidewise on the carpet. I can’t see any blood or signs of trauma, but her blue eyes are wide open, not seeing anything.

Thirty-five-year-old professionals don't die of heart attacks, and she’d never struck me as the suicidal type. Anyway, this whole scene is too ... staged.

After her death. By whoever killed her.

I start to shake uncontrollably. I can’t bear to touch her, and I can’t be sure Mandy’s killer isn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows or even in my office. I want to run as fast and as far away as I can, but my legs won't obey. Surely I’d sense the presence of another human being, wouldn’t I? I manage to make it to her desk before collapsing into the chair, still shaking, which makes it nearly impossible to dial 9-1-1.

Where is Toby when I need him? Halfway around the world in Bahrain. Worse, why am I even thinking about the jerk?

I try not to look at Mandy, but it fails to keep the guilt at bay. I’ve often wished my business partner would drop dead. Now, it seems, she has obliged. I recall the old Chinese proverb and feel ill. Of course, wishes aren't acts, and even if I've totally lost my mind and don't remember what I’ve been doing these past few minutes or even hours, I know I’m not the person who killed her. Yes, I have hated Amanda Garson passionately, totally, and perhaps even unreasonably for at least two years. It started when I discovered she had betrayed our friendship by screwing my boyfriend. And then I began to notice the problem of the missing business income.

The shakes have mostly subsided by the time the police show up. One of them is over six feet tall and the other is so short, I immediately think Mutt and Jeff. The tall one is very dark and very bald. He introduces himself as Melvin Harris and his shorter, stocky partner as Earl Rockingham. The light brown hair curling over his collar and stoner sideburns make Rockingham look more like a sixties-era hippie than a police officer. They set about their work dispassionately and professionally.

Rockingham suggests we move to the reception area. Once we’re seated, he pulls out his notepad. Okay, Ms. Halstead. You discovered the body this morning when you entered the premises?

Yes.

What time was that?

After eight. I can’t be sure exactly, but closer to eight than eight-thirty.

Did you touch her? Check for a pulse?

My face grows hot. God no. I just couldn’t.

So you thought she was dead.

Yes, I reply, clasping my hands tightly together to keep them from shaking. She was too still.

I see. He makes a little notation and looks up at me. You called this in as a murder, not a suicide or an accident. Why?

I shrug. "I don't know. She’s too young to die naturally, and nothing around her suggests she fell and hit her head. And you saw how she was— Is posed the right word? With her hair all fanned out like it was? I do know she had a lot of ene—" I stop speaking, and he stops writing.

Enemies?

I nod as another hot flush creeps up my neck and onto my face.

Such as?

Such as me. Don’t go there, Roxy. Such as her ex-husband and some of the employees here. There could be others.

What about you? You two get along, or ...? He waves an encouraging hand.

We are business partners. Were business partners.

So no disagreements on how to run the-uh—

—data entry. Mandy’s had this business for about five years. I’ve only been her partner for three.

Rockingham’s partner calls out from the other room, and the detective snaps his notebook shut. We'll be wanting to ask you further questions at some point. He pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to me. Call us if you got any questions.

I nod, wondering if I need a lawyer.

You're not planning to go anywhere out of town, are you?

No. Especially not now when I will be fully in charge of the business. Since Rockingham doesn’t ask me, I don't tell him how much I loathe out-of-town excursions. The last one, two years ago, was a three-day retreat at the Greenbrier Resort with spouses and significant others invited on the last day to let all our freelancers meet and mingle in hopes of creating a sense of solidarity and teamwork.

Mandy and Toby, it turned out, had thoroughly embraced both concepts. Earlier in the day while trying to chase down Toby’s wicked cross-court backhand, I’d hyperextended my knee. The folks at the clinic told me to elevate the leg, keep it iced, and rest for at least two weeks. So there I was, lying on the bed in our room, my leg on a pillow, an ice pack on the knee, feeling sorry for myself. Everyone on the team we’d just built was enjoying the celebratory dinner, after which Mandy and Toby decided to indulge in a nightcap involving more than liqueur. Of course, they’d denied anything had happened, despite me discovering her panties in his jacket pocket.

As if in response to the dim memory, my knee begins to throb, just as it did last night when I’d nearly been caught red-handed, spying on a woman who is now dead.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

The next few days pass in a whirl of panic-induced energy. Or is it shock? I throw myself into work with even greater determination than before. I’ve got to save the business and the jobs of the people who work for us, including my own. Luckily, a couple of clients who've given Garson and Halstead only dribs and drabs over the past few months suddenly want us to take on major projects. One of them involves entering responses to a nationwide survey about gun rights. To control for the obvious rural-urban split on the issue, the survey forms have been inserted as an advertising supplement in daily newspapers throughout the country. I had briefly wondered why the survey wasn’t going to be handled online or by phone, although it’s possible the client believes the newspaper insert is hack-proof. The responses so far have been in the upper six figures. This project is going to be a beast, not only because of the volume but also because the responses are marked on newsprint where ink tends to bleed, making some words indecipherable. I hope the responses are just checkmarks of the yes/no variety. If not, this baby’s going to take forever to complete. Oh what the hell. It’s what we’re paid for.

The other project involves transcribing a lengthy, turgid legal brief for the appeals court on a case involving patent infringement. The client is a one-man law firm, and the one man, Joseph Farthington, Esquire, is in his seventies and not exactly au courant with computers. He dictates all his pleadings the old fashioned way on a Dictaphone. Up until now, he’s relied on us mostly for transcribing letters and invoicing. I didn’t ask what had happened to the person who normally handled word processing of Farthington’s lengthier documents. None of my business. But I am secretly pleased. Surely these jobs will erase at least some of the red ink.

Lining up the freelancers for the two new projects takes up most of my day, so I bring the mail with me to peruse at home.

There’s the latest postcard from Bahrain. I recognize Toby’s handwriting. I'll be home in about three weeks. A mosque of indescribable orange and gold beauty graces the front of the card. No greeting, no signature. I am no longer Dear Roxanne and haven’t been since the morning when I discovered the damning contents of Toby’s jacket.

It’s not what you think, he’d said. But he was hugely embarrassed and therefore guilty.

Instead of hashing things out with the cheating bastard, I’d snatched up his car keys and left. His new teammate had to drive him back to Washington.

Please let me explain, Toby would plead over and over again on my answering machine and in texts and e-mails. I’d just delete them. I don't need to hear his side of the story.

But I did hear hers. According to Mandy, she'd had a few drinks with Toby, and, even though she knew he was off limits, there’d always been strong mutual attraction, and one thing led to another, and blah, blah, blah.

He's such a gorgeous hunk, she'd said. I simply couldn't resist.

I hope you're happy, I’d snarled, and slammed the door between our two offices. The next day, I moved a bookcase in front of it just to make sure I couldn’t back down and compromise as she expected me to do, for the sake of the business. I got the first postcard from Bahrain a month afterwards. It showed a slew of oil derricks. On the back, Toby had written, "appearances are deceiving. I miss you." But not enough to keep his pants zipped. I’d tossed the oil derricks into the trash.

Thinking about wastebaskets reminded me of Mandy’s. After the intruder had departed and I’d checked to make sure the only files on her computer were business-related, I’d emptied her trash onto the carpet only to find a gum wrapper and a couple of used tissues.

What was it the intruder had said? Still looking. What did he come there to find? Did he find it? What if he came back to search the next morning and surprised Mandy and killed her? Naw. Too risky. Unless he’d arranged to meet her. After all, her being in the office before noon was one for the record books.

I should let the cops know about the break-in, but too much time has passed. They’ll wonder why I’ve withheld the information, accuse me of obstructing justice. Because I can’t see a connection. If this was supposedly about money, why arrange Mandy’s hair in a fan around her head? Her murder had to be something personal. Or, worse. Some kind of sicko getting off on redheads. The burglar didn’t strike me as either.

Not my problem, unless he returns while I’m in the office. Alone. I should hire a receptionist/body guard. If I could afford it. Which reminds me of my original mission. If Mandy was up to something illegal/nefarious/addictive/whatever involving draining large sums of money from Garson and Halstead accounts, would she hide evidence of her activities in her office?

No. She might have kept something on a flash drive, provided she bothered to store the information anywhere other than inside her head. If she was being extorted or something along those lines, she’d probably want to have a record in case something happened to her. Well, something did. Since there’s no way I can search her phone or the inside of her capacious Birkin bag, now in police custody, I’m left with another thought: Perhaps she’d hidden something in her two-story town house, a place I’d last seen when she was married to Carl, who’d pinched my butt one New Year’s Eve. I was still suffering a bit of PTSD stemming from a far more serious incident of unwanted touching, so he was lucky I didn’t kick him in the balls. Instead, I’d screamed, Get your filthy hands off me, you fucker! It pretty much put an end to me having anything but a professional relationship with Carl and his soon-to-be ex-wife.

At the time, I’d wondered if I was the reason they split up. I even felt guilty. Sort of. But after the Toby thing, I figured turnabout definitely was fair play. Unless Mandy’s fling with my ex-boyfriend was her getting back at me? I guess it’s the problem with turnabouts. They’re so circular, they can come back and bite you on the ass.

Enough of the Toby thing. I must focus on the here and now. It’s time for another mission by ace spy Roxanne Halstead, who will do whatever it takes to save her business and possibly discover whodunit. I don’t even need to break in.

Of course, the police have Mandy’s house taped off. They’ll be looking for evidence just like me. I should let them do it. Only, they won’t give a shit about her siphoning off our business income.

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