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  Love Can Be Murder

  Marilyn Rausch

  and

  Mary Donlon

  North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

  Saint Cloud, 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.