Free A Healthy Homicide by Staci McLaughlin

I said. “Are you helping Patricia organize it?”
    Stan opened his mouth to answer, but Patricia jumped in. “Oh, no, my husband is much too busy with work. I’m doing everything myself, from the decorations to drinks to these flyers.” She tapped the one in my hand for emphasis.
    “Now, honey,” Stan said, “if you need my help, all you have to do is ask. I know how much Carla meant to you.” He turned to me. “I’m an accountant. Tax season is our busy time. I’ve been working late every night the past couple of weeks.”
    Patricia laid a hand on my arm. “Please tell me you’ll come to the service. I’d appreciate it so much.”
    I’d been waffling about attending ever since I’d read the flyer. Tomorrow was my day off, and I didn’t have much planned. “I’ll be there,” I decided.
    “Wonderful,” Patricia said. “I’m hoping for a nice turnout for Carla.”
    Stan reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Now that that’s settled . . .”
    Patricia tried to put up a hand to block him. “Stan, now’s not the time.”
    “Nonsense, honey. It’s always a good time to talk about taxes.” He handed me his card. “If you don’t already have an accountant, I’d like to offer my services. My rates are reasonable.”
    I studied the card, plain white with his name and CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANT written in black across the middle. The typical info was listed at the bottom. Considering I had no property, no stock portfolio, and no deductions, my taxes took me all of ten minutes to complete. “I’ve got it covered, but I’ll be sure to keep you in mind if I have any problems,” I told him.
    A loud rumble came from behind me on the street, and I turned around. An older-model muscle car, polished to a high sheen and with flames painted on the side, pulled to the curb behind my Honda. The engine continued to thrum as the passenger door opened and a girl in her late teens or early twenties got out, her long brown hair swishing around her shoulders. She looked over at our little group before speaking to the driver of the car, a young-looking guy with an angel tattoo on his right forearm.
    She shut the car door and walked to the entrance of the spa. Without acknowledging us, she pulled a key ring from her pocket, selected a key, and stuck it in the lock.
    “Erin!” The shrillness in Patricia’s voice made me wince. “Did the police say you could go in there?”
    This must be the niece who, Jessica was convinced, had murdered Carla. I took a closer look at Erin. With her petite stature and wispy frame, she looked more like a potential victim than a cold-blooded killer.
    Erin turned toward us and rolled her eyes, drawing attention to her glittery eyelids and blue eyeliner. “Of course, Patricia. I’m not an idiot.”
    Patricia pursed her lips but softened her tone. “I didn’t say you were. Only, I’d hate for you to mess anything up while the police are looking for your aunt’s killer.”
    Erin’s gaze traveled to the flyer on the window. Her face darkened as she read the words. “Nice of you to invite me to my own aunt’s memorial service.”
    Patricia blushed. “I called, but you never answer your phone.”
    “You could have left a voice mail.”
    At the curb, the driver of the muscle car honked. Erin gave him a little wave while Patricia glared at him.
    “I see Ricky drove you over,” Patricia said. She reached for Erin, but Erin shifted away. “What would Carla say?”
    Erin’s head whipped up. “Nothing. She’s dead. Now, let me get my stuff.” She twisted the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and disappeared inside.
    Patricia sighed, and Stan started rubbing her back. “After all Carla’s done for that girl,” she said, shaking her head.
    I couldn’t help asking, “Like what?”
    “Gave her a place to live, for starters, after her no-good drunk of a mother—”
    “Patricia, please,” Stan said. He removed his hand from his wife’s