Amanda Flower: Maid of Murder

He made a gesture as if he was zipping his lips shut.

I knew it would take much more than an imaginary zipper to keep Bobby quiet. Nevertheless, I continued. “I think Mark fell in love with Olivia when we were still in grade school. Even at age six she was beautiful, and she knew it too.”

Bobby made hissing cat sounds.

I laughed. “Maybe I was a little jealous. She also knew how much Mark liked her, but she never showed any interest until high school when she and Mark dated briefly. I think she only did it because she was between boyfriends at the time and Mark was a senior when we were only sophomores. Even dating a senior nerd like Mark was more impressive than dating someone in our own class. It was never serious on Olivia’s part. She dated a lot of different guys from skateboarders to jocks. I guess she counted Mark as her geek quota. When they broke up, he didn’t take it well. He called her, hung around her house, waited for her after school. It was awful. Even when she was with someone else, she was all he talked about. Well, besides the Pythagorean Theorem, that is. After Mark graduated, he went to Martin in order to stay close to Olivia, despite the fact that he could have gone just about anywhere with his test scores.”

“I bet your parents loved that he gave up the Ivy League for a girl.”

“When it was her turn to choose a college, Olivia went to a school in Virginia. That’s when it got really bad.”

“Bad how?

I bit my lip. “Look, we’re almost there.”

Bobby crossed his arms across his chest. “Fine. I’ll make up my own ending.”

“Don’t even think about it.” I took my eyes off the road to give him my best dirty scowl, a look I perfected at the library’s reference desk.

“What?” He asked innocent as a baby lamb. I knew better.

“You’re wondering if you can use that story in one of your ridiculous plots.”

Bobby had a penchant of writing short fiction for romance magazines. He’d sold several to publications like Minx and Velvet Rose . I had proofread far too many of them to want my brother to be the inspiration for the next confounded hero.

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Okay, I was, but my readers would love it. It’s got all the elements: scorned heart, love lost—”

“We’re talking about Mark here. Please. I might have to pull over and throw up. It’s wrong to use his heartbreak that way, especially for a measly two hundred bucks.”

“Hey, Minx paid me six hundred last time for Secret Kiss , a three-part series,” he said proudly.

I shook my head and turned the car onto Kilbourne Street. I pointed at a two-story colonial. “That’s where I grew up.” Someone had painted it a dark khaki. I grimaced.

“Very suburban,” he remarked.

Two houses down, I parked in the driveway of a large Victorian, complete with wraparound porch and suspended swing, outshining all the other abodes on the block. When I lived on Kilbourne Street, the Blocken house had been painted a simple white with navy trim; now it was a supposedly Victorian pink with darker pink trim. I’m sure the decorator called the colors “damask” and “mauve.”

I wasn’t halfway out of my car when I heard a high-pitched yelp, resembling a frightened puppy at the groomer’s.

“Incoming,” Bobby said as he slipped expertly out of the passenger side door.

“India!” Olivia ran toward me with her arms outstretched and welcoming as if I was a returning war hero. Thankfully, I cleared the car door before she hit. She grabbed me in a crushing hug. Because she’s so thin, this would have surprised me if I had not known about her lifelong obsession with fitness. There was a kickboxing-hardened body hidden under her elegant sundress. After an excruciatingly long minute, she released me. All the while, Bobby smirked at me over her head. He was enjoying himself a little too much, in my opinion.

Olivia looked much the same as she had in high school—same build, same endearing smile and flawless complexion. However, her hair was red, and so expertly done that I wouldn’t have suspected anything if I hadn’t known her for twenty-some years as a brunette.

“I’m so glad to see you.” She repeated the sentence at least three times until she finally noticed Bobby standing beside my car with that infuriating grin on his face. “And who’s this?” she asked with the tone of an eighth-grade girl spotting a tenth-grade hottie.

Bobby looked especially fetching standing in the afternoon sun, dressed in pressed chino shorts and blue knit shirt I knew he’d picked to match his eyes. One of the arguments I had used to persuade him to accompany me was that he might meet a new lady friend. Bobby was always on the prowl for a new heart to break. Fortunately, I knew this from observation, not experience. When I started working at Martin’s library, Bobby’s looks had intimidated me, but sometime during the last three years, he’d grown familiar. I was only reminded how handsome he was when women reacted to him like Olivia just had. Or when female undergraduates strutted up to the reference desk to ask me when the “hot book guy” would return. I’ve never told Bobby about the “hot book guy” thing; his ego is far too large already.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Olivia,” I said, as if I should have introduced him while she was crushing my bones into powder. “This is Robert McNally. He works with me at Martin.”

“Really?” Olivia on her strappy high-heeled sandals sashayed over to Bobby and took his outstretched hand. “Hello, Robert. I don’t remember librarians being as hot as you when I was in college.”

I stopped myself just short of asking her if she’s ever stepped inside her college library.

“Call me Bobby,” he replied, his eyes looking her up and down.

“Call me Olivia,” she cooed.

Call me disgusted, I thought. “Olivia, I’m dying to meet Kirk. You know . . . your fiancé?”

Her head snapped up. She removed her hand from Bobby’s light grasp. “You’re going to love him.” Olivia led us up the front walk.

Hanging back, I squeezed Bobby’s arm. “She’s engaged, for Pete’s sake.”

He smiled back, pretending not to hear.

The front door opened into the living room or, as Mrs. Blocken liked to call it, the parlor. The inside of the house had changed as well. Mrs. Blocken had obviously maxed out her creative resources and her husband’s credit cards. The interior was faux-finished within an inch of its life.

Olivia’s parents stood by the door, ready to greet their guests. I met Mrs. Blocken’s gaze and the temperature dropped several degrees. Then again, some things never change.

I hadn’t spoken to Olivia’s parents since the unfortunate incident at Olivia’s high school graduation party. Sure, sometimes I would spot them in the local market but would dive down the next available aisle before they could recognize me.

“Look who’s here,” Olivia told her parents.

Mrs. Blocken extended a narrow hand with polished nails. She barely brushed my hand with hers. “Thank you for coming.”

Mrs. Blocken had abandoned the helmet bob that had bolstered her through the decades. In its place, she’d fashioned her hair in a short cut. Her hair was only a deeper shade of red than her daughter’s. The coif framed her face and elongated her tight neck. Plastic surgery? I thought so. She wore a sundress so frighteningly similar to Olivia’s that I blinked. Bobby noticed the twin routine too, judging by the amused expression on his face.

I introduced Bobby, and Mrs. Blocken held out her hand to Bobby in the same manner that she had to me. However, when he took it, she held on longer than necessary. Bobby’s physical appearance enthralled all generations of women. “And will you be India’s guest for the wedding?”