Health, Wealth, and Murder: A Plain Jane Mystery (The Plain Jane Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  Jane shrugged. “It’s fine by me. Gemma, do you mind sleeping over?”

  Gemma yawned again and closed her eyes. “Can we girls all sleep in the same room? I’m kind of freaked out.”

  “Good idea.” Jake picked up his phone and typed something.

  A few moments later Jane’s phone rang.

  She answered it, more than a little confused. “Hello?”

  “Come on up.” Phoebe yawned. “I’m in the yellow bedroom because mine’s a pit. But I’m going back to sleep, so don’t wake me.”

  Jane took Gemma’s arm. “See you in the morning.” She kissed Jake’s cheek and left.

  It crossed her mind that if her parents still lived in Portland, they probably wouldn’t approve of her staying over at her boyfriend’s house—again. But maybe, because of the murder, they’d understand…

  Three

  The three girls snuggled down under the fluffy yellow comforter in the king-sized bed. Jane dozed on and off, but Gemma tossed and turned.

  “Ouch,” Phoebe whispered. “Tell your cousin to quit kicking me.”

  Jane pulled the down pillow over her ears. It was hard enough to sleep with the details of the strange revival meeting playing over and over again in her mind.

  “Sorry.” Gemma tugged the blanket and rolled over. “I’ll sleep again once Jane’s caught the killer.”

  Phoebe pulled the blanket back, leaving a drafty gap for Jane. “How are you going to solve this murder, Janey? Weren’t the other three kind of flukes?”

  Jane yawned. She rubbed her eyes. She flopped over. She didn’t want to know what time the clock face read.

  Gemma elbowed Jane so that she had to roll over. “You’re going to follow up with Francine, right? She’ll call and you’ll figure it all out. Josiah Malachi is a martyr.”

  “He’s a corpse, anyway, and that’s what Jane’s into.” Phoebe leaned on her elbow and looked down at Jane. “Would you take the case even if you didn’t get paid?”

  “I don’t know.” Jane squeezed her eyes shut as tight as she could, but it didn’t stop the other girls from talking.

  “Of course she would.” Gemma’s voice cracked.

  Jane sat up. “I won’t do anything if I can’t sleep.” She grabbed her pillow and crawled over Phoebe to get out. She pulled the nubby pink chenille throw blanket off of the foot of the bed. “G’night.” She yawned again, and her eye caught the clock face. Two thirty a.m.

  She padded down the many steps, her hand gliding along the glossy banister she had cleaned so many times, and went into the front room. She wasn’t scared to be alone in this house. It felt almost like home. And if she had learned anything in her criminal justice classes, there were murderers running around 24/7. Not just when you yourself knew that someone had died.

  She stretched out on the sofa and pulled the soft blanket up to her chin. She would probably not make it to her 8:00 a.m. class tomorrow.

  As she fell asleep she heard soft footsteps on the stairs—a familiar, homey sound.

  Jake padded into the living room and sat down on the floor beside her. He rested his head on the couch. “Good morning, sunshine.”

  “It’s not morning until I’ve slept at least four hours.”

  Jake’s eyes fluttered shut. “I know.”

  She stroked his blondish-brown hair. It was slightly too long to be professional. Her hand relaxed with the silky strands between her fingers. Jane thought he said something else, but she was slipping into sleep.

  She woke up clinging to the edge of the couch, her head pushed off of the edge by a pair of huge feet in gym socks. The morning sun was already high, if the bright beam of light sneaking through the gap in the heavy drapes was any indication.

  “Jake,” she muttered, pushing the feet away.

  “Sorry, I got cold on the floor.”

  Jane pulled the blanket over her head. This everyone-camping-out-together-during-the-crisis thing wasn’t going to work.

  Jake’s arms were wrapped around her legs, probably the only thing keeping her from falling off the sofa. He kissed her ankles. “Isn’t it warmer with the two of us?”

  Jane rolled off the sofa with a thud; only her feet, still in Jake’s grip, stayed up. “You’re going to get us into trouble, Crawford.”

  “It’s not sleeping together if we were just sleeping, Janey.” Jake yawned and tugged her ankles. “What are you fixing for breakfast?”

  Jane wriggled her feet free. “I’m going home for breakfast. I will entrust Gemma into Phoebe’s safekeeping.” Jane smoothed the wrinkles out of her T-shirt and jeans. “Even if I have already missed my first class, I do have to get downtown today.”

  Jake sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. “How many days until you graduate?”

  “Don’t go there.”

  Jake flopped down again. “Do you have any crime-solving classes today?”

  “One.”

  “Good, find out how to get an in with the police. I think you’ll need it this time.”

  Jane’s phone went off while she was trying to find her shoes. It was a number she didn’t recognize, but she noticed it was already nine in the morning, so she answered it.

  “Is this Jane Adler of Adler-Crawford Detective Agency?”

  “This is Jane.” She bit her tongue. She’d have to have a word with Gemma and Jake about how they recommended her to others. This Adler-Crawford thing wasn’t working for her.

  “My name is Francine de Leon. Gemma Adler gave me your number last night.” Francine’s voice was flat and thin, as though she was completely exhausted.

  Jane paused in the hall. “Gemma mentioned it. How can I help you?”

  “Can we meet today? To talk about Josiah Malachi’s death?”

  “Of course.” Jane quickly ran through her schedule. She had missed her first morning class and would miss her ten o’clock as well if she didn’t hurry. Then she had a noon class, and after that, two houses to clean. She expected to be free again by six in the evening.

  “Can we meet now? It’s rather urgent.”

  Jane flinched. Murder was always urgent, and if she couldn’t accept that right off the bat, she had no business going into business. “Yes, of course. Where can I meet you?”

  “I’m at the Central Library downtown. I’ll be waiting at the staircase.”

  “I can be there in thirty minutes. Will that work for you?”

  “Of course.”

  Jake sidled up to her and whispered in her other ear. “The Jag goes real fast. I can get you there in ten minutes.” He paused. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll see you there.” Jane turned her head and kissed Jake before he could say anything else. His lips were warm and sleepy. She thought about forgetting the morning meeting…but she pulled away with a smile. “I had already calculated for your fast car. But I do need to shower and eat something before I have my first meeting about the Malachi murder.”

  Jake grinned. “I can help you shower faster.”

  “You wish.” Jane ran up the stairs before Jake could reply.

  She really had to stop spending the night at his house.

  Jake entered downtown Portland’s massive brick library behind Jane, but passed her and hovered by a table of free newspapers while Jane looked for Francine. She could see him from the corner of her eye. She wondered if he was going to take a personal day, and if so, how his business managed to run itself without him there all the time.

  “Jane Adler?” The woman who approached Jane was small, with thick, dark hair. Jane guessed her to be in her early thirties. She had very few lines on her face even though she was tan, so she couldn’t be forty yet, and her suit, while stylish in its own way, was still a suit, so she couldn’t have been in her twenties.

  “Yes, that’s me. And you’re Francine?” Jane shook Francine’s hand. It was cold.

  “I’m so glad you could meet me.” She kept her voice low. Her eyes were bloodshot, as though she had been crying, or not sleeping. �
��I don’t know this city well, but the public library seemed like a safe place to meet.”

  They climbed the wide marble staircase in silence. Clearly what Francine wanted to discuss was private, and though no one paid them any attention, the cold, echoey foyer and staircase was no place to share secrets.

  On the second floor Francine led Jane to a closed door that she unlocked with a key—the Sterling Room for Writers.

  Jane paused in the doorway. It wasn’t that she was a writer, or wanted to write, but the wood-paneled room, locked away, exclusive to the five hundred writers who had keys to it, was something of a legend among students at the college down the street. Jane held her breath as she stepped inside.

  “How did you get the key?” she whispered, forgetting for a moment that she was here to talk about murder, and not about the room itself.

  Francine slipped the key into her pocket. “One of our task force teammates is a local. He stole the key from his brother. I’m glad the room is empty, but I don’t know how long it will be.” She eyed the door, and then took a seat at the far end of the room.

  “Tell me what happened.” Jane sat down at the polished wooden library table across from Francine.

  Francine bristled. “How much has your friend told you already?”

  “Gemma told me what she saw, or at least, what she thought she saw. She was near the front, but her view was slightly obstructed, and she was overwhelmed.”

  Francine nodded. “Yes, that’s what they want. In fact, most seats at Josiah Malachi events have slightly obstructed views. It makes it so that the audience is compelled to watch the screens hanging behind him, or the televisions that some venues have hanging in the audience, instead of him.”

  “Does he do this to have better control over what the audience sees?”

  “Of course.” Francine shifted. “Diversion is an old trick. If he has them watching him on a screen, then he can use graphics and editing to divert them from anything he has to do that he doesn’t want them to see.”

  “Was the event going according to schedule when Malachi…passed out?”

  “Yes.” Francine looked out the window and shivered. Unlike the day before, this spring morning was grey and damp. However, the shiver, and the pallor on her face, didn’t seem to be about the weather. “Everything he had done to the moment he fell over had been according to plan. I had tried to talk him out of the foam bit. I didn’t like it. Foaming at the mouth. It doesn’t seem holy to me. But when he fell, and missed his line, I knew something had gone wrong.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to fall?”

  “No, that part was right, but he was supposed to say something after he took a sip of his water but before he fell, and he missed his line.”

  “What was he supposed to say?”

  Francine pulled a paper from her pocket and consulted it. “He was scheduled to say, ‘The harvest is ready,’ but he could have gone off script and said something similar, or even something about how the kingdom was at hand; something from one of his other scripts would have worked. But he didn’t say anything. He just foamed, and then fell over.” Her voice was still flat, almost emotionless, but she shivered and fidgeted. She was clearly frightened, rather than grieving over the loss of her boss.

  “Tell me about the foam.”

  “We have to keep things changing. It can’t be the same year after year, or people will notice the script. They will notice that it is all planned out. He can’t have that, can he?” She stared out the window. “He thought a new physical manifestation was in order, but he’s been doing this for so many years now, and what can you do that’s new after all of that time? Or that someone else isn’t already doing?”

  “What did he use to create the foam?”

  Francine shrugged. “Nothing special. He had vinegar mixed with his water. At one point in the talk he wipes his forehead and his face with a handkerchief, and when he does that he slips a little tablet into his mouth. They’re nothing special, just baking soda. He fills them himself. When he’s ready he chomps it, sips his vinegar, and starts foaming. Sometimes he says his line first, sometimes after. But foam is this year’s big thing.”

  “Do people believe…that that is God at work?”

  “Yes.” Wouldn’t make eye contact; instead she stared out the big window.

  Jane followed her gaze. A couple sat on one of the benches alone. Another bench had a family of wiggly children and a mom, or nanny, with them. People ambled past like they had no place to go. Cars drove slowly down the road. Normal Portland traffic. Jane would have bet Francine couldn’t make eye contact because she was filled with shame.

  Jane certainly would have been.

  Francine looked down at her paper. “After Josiah says his line and starts foaming, he is supposed to fall. Then he is supposed to start speaking his visions. After he has spoken for one minute, no more, no less, because these days his visions aren’t what they used to be, the task force surges forward, pulling the crowd with them. This is another diversion. It creates drama. It gives Josiah time to pull himself together, though he doesn’t really. He just stands again, straightens himself out, and trips for a while as people pass out in the audience.”

  “Trips for a while?” Jane scribbled notes as fast as she could.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. He also slips an acid tab on his tongue while he is talking. We have a visual cue to know when he has done this, and then he times the water-and-foam trick. As soon as he starts seeing things he sips his water—well, vinegar water this year.” Francine sighed. “It’s just so ugly, you know? Taking drugs and telling people it is God. And the people out in the audience falling all over themselves.”

  Jane set her pen down. “How did you get involved with the Malachi Ministries?”

  “He came through my church for a revival and recruited me from the college group. I was honored, excited. He seemed to be everything that our church and I stood for, back then.” Francine’s voice cracked, the flatness broken for just a moment. She passed her hand over her eyes. “All of us college kids wanted to do big things for God, and that’s what Josiah Malachi promised. Big things for God.”

  “How long have you been with them?”

  “Sixteen years. He was almost unheard of when I started touring with him.” She sighed.

  “He was killed with a knife, I think?”

  “Yes, in the melee on stage. After he passed out, he was stabbed. He was supposed to be telling us his visions, but he didn’t. He actually passed out. He tried, I think. Something about a golden throne. It was a first, and maybe the crowd liked it, but it wasn’t in the script.”

  Jane scratched her head. “Who do you think killed him?”

  Francine opened her mouth to speak, but just shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  The door rattled.

  “Before we get company, or get kicked out, where do you think I should start my inquiries?”

  Francine licked her lips, and eyed the window again. “I think you need to start on the inside. But undercover. I want to hire you to be Christiana Malachi’s housekeeper. We’ll have to stay in town for a while, and she’s in a rented house instead of a hotel, so she needs help.” Francine looked Jane up and down, assessing her for the first time. “That’s why I latched onto the idea of you after meeting that girl. Because you could come like a maid while being a detective.”

  Jane didn’t like the look of fear and distrust in Francine’s eyes. “Why not just leave it to the police?”

  Francine gripped the edge of the table. “Because I will be their first suspect.”

  Jane suppressed a grin. Now things were getting interesting.

  But the door rattled again, and a short, stocky man with a week’s growth of beard and a big laptop shuffled into the writers’ room. He nodded at Francine, pulled his cap lower to shade his eyes, and found a seat.

  Jake leaned against the outer wall, next to the door, reading the Portland Tribune. He shook his newspaper, but didn’t acknowledge Jane.
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  Jane chuckled. Jake, all one hundred forty pounds of him, did not make an intimidating heavy.

  Francine took Jane straight to Christiana Malachi’s rental house. A quick glance at the rearview revealed Jake one car behind them. Though she thought he was a bit ridiculous, she appreciated the idea she’d have her own ride home, should she need it.

  Four

  The Malachi rental house was tucked into a quiet street in the Alameda neighborhood. Francine knocked lightly and let herself in. “Christiana?”

  “In here!” Christiana called from the back of the house.

  Francine led Jane to a room at the back of the house. Christiana was sunk in a leather recliner, wrapped in a lap quilt. She set her tablet on her knee when Francine and Jane entered. Her thin, blonde-penciled eyebrows drew together. “Is this the maid?”

  “Yes, I thought I’d bring her by and introduce her so if you happened to run into her, you’d know who she was.” Francine smiled sympathetically. “We won’t bother you anymore.”

  Christiana frowned, deep lines framing her thin lips. “Does she have references?”

  “Of course. I’ve got them right here.” Francine patted a clipboard she had tucked under her arm.

  Christiana held out her hand, each finger sporting a flashy ring. “Well, let me have it. I’ll want to check all of them.”

  Francine let out a little “oh” of pity. “I couldn’t possibly make you do that. Not after all you’ve been through. And the media.” She tilted her head sympathetically.

  Christiana rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right.” She sighed. “I can’t call them myself. But…” She lifted her eyebrow. “I want to listen in.” She looked Jane up and down, then turned back to Francine. “Take her away. I don’t have the energy for the calls today.”

  Francine gripped Jane’s elbow and led her back outside. “I don’t know when she’ll want to make the calls, but I need you to start immediately. Do you even have cleaning references?” she hissed.