Murdered My Sweet Read online

  Praise for

  Murdered, My Sweet

  “Another solid Nixon mystery. Young teens will delight in Jenny’s deft cover-up of her mother’s detective deficiencies and the touch of light romance.”

  —Booklist

  Books by Joan Lowery Nixon

  FICTION

  A Candidate for Murder

  The Dark and Deadly Pool

  Don’t Scream

  The Ghosts of Now

  Ghost Town: Seven Ghostly Stories

  The Haunting

  In the Face of Danger

  The Island of Dangerous Dreams

  The Kidnapping of Christina Lattimore

  Laugh Till You Cry

  Murdered, My Sweet

  The Name of the Game Was Murder

  Nightmare

  Nobody’s There

  The Other Side of Dark

  Playing for Keeps

  Search for the Shadowman

  Secret, Silent Screams

  Shadowmaker

  The Specter

  Spirit Seeker

  The Stalker

  The Trap

  The Weekend Was Murder!

  Whispers from the Dead

  Who Are You?

  NONFICTION

  The Making of a Writer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1997 by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Cover photographs © Eric Kamp/Index Stock (top); © Jim McGuire/Index Stock (bottom)

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover by Delacorte Press, New York, in 1997.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-0-385-32245-4 (trade) — eISBN: 978-0-307-53869-7 (ebook)

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  Another one to Nick

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  It’s not easy being related to a woman who’s famous for murdering people.

  Don’t get me wrong. Mom’s not a real murderer. She’s Madeline Jakes, the most famous mystery writer in the United States—maybe the world. She’s a good writer, too. I’ve never met anyone who could read one of Mom’s novels late at night and not have to sleep with the bathroom light on.

  So many people have seen Mom’s picture on the back of her book jackets and watched her being interviewed on TV that they recognize her in public places. “There’s Madeline Jakes!” some whisper. Some point. Maybe because they’ve been watching too much television, I notice some glance around to see if Mom’s with the police, helping to solve a murder at that very moment.

  Solve a murder? Mom? It’s actually funny. My mom is a woman who half the time can’t even figure out where she put her car keys or placed her glasses. She rarely remembers birthdays or doctor appointments or speaking engagements unless she’s reminded. Mom has never solved a murder in her life, except for the murders in her books. Because she makes those up, she knows from the very beginning “whodunnit.” I don’t count them.

  Try telling that to Mom. She’s actually started to believe what she reads about herself, because when fans ask her about real cases she’s solved, she doesn’t come right out and say, “What cases? The police have never once asked for my help.” Instead she smiles as though she has a big secret. She even giggles, which is really gross behavior for a forty-three-year-old woman. When I hear her murmur something about classified information, I want to … well, just imagine!

  “If I only had the chance, Jenny,” Mom said to me recently, “I know I could use my skills as a mystery writer to solve real crimes.”

  “Mom,” I reminded her, “it’s your brother who solves real crimes. Uncle Bill’s a homicide detective. You’re a writer. You use your imagination and your computer to give your fans stories about make-believe murders.”

  Mom tapped a pencil against her nose, smiled, and gazed far away. “But if I had the chance to solve a real crime,” she insisted, “I know I could.”

  It wouldn’t have done any good to answer. I fought back the resentment that sometimes boils up and threatens to choke me when Mom goes off into her fictional world like one of her own characters. That’s when, more than ever, I wish that Dad were still alive, because whenever Mom became a sailboat, Dad was there as an anchor. And sometimes I want to scream at Mom, “You’re the mother, not me! You’re supposed to be taking care of me! Why do I end up having to take care of you?”

  Dad had been an officer in the Air Force, and we were transferred so much we were never able to make friends who were keepers. When I was little it didn’t matter to me, because there were always kids around to play with, but Mom likes people and badly wanted friends, so everywhere we went she joined clubs and took classes in whatever was handy. That’s how she became interested in writing. She signed up for a class in “How to Write a Mystery Novel,” and found—as she told us—where she truly belonged.

  Her books were published, but Mom didn’t make much money with them for the first few years. And when Dad’s plane crashed, Mom was so heartbroken I thought she’d never be able to write again. But Mom has always had courage and spunk, and one day she told me, “Jenny, if I work hard and write books that people want to read, I know that someday I can make a good life for you.”

  Maybe Mom knew all along that her books would be best-sellers and she’d be famous. And maybe somewhere inside her all along was the persona that blossomed overnight. A publicist advised her, “Don’t go to interviews or talk shows as a pleasant neighbor-next-door. Your public wants to see a writer of mysteries. That means glamour … drama … pizzazz!”

  The chiffon scarves, the drama, and the “darlings” fit Mom like a beautiful new dress. I didn’t mind at first. Mom had always been filled with imagination and fun. However, her new personality has a downside. It may be that the glamorous mystery writer is no longer able to handle all the mundane, routine details of life by herself. Or maybe she enjoys leaving them behind and joining the social life of many of the famous people she meets. Whatever the reason, I end up having to do a lot of the mothering. I’m too young to be a mother—especially my mother’s mother—but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  In spite of having to deal with a mother who spends much of her life in never-never land, I love my mom. I really do, even during the moments when we seem to be trying to drive each other crazy.


  When Mom’s not mentally off somewhere inside the story she’s writing, she’s fun to be with, and often, when she goes away on weekends or holidays, for autographings or to give lectures, she takes me with her. I swim in the hotel pool or lie on the beach, and eat great food. When people smile and ask me, “Do you ever help your mother solve mysteries?” I answer, “I’m the one who helps her remember where she’s going so she can catch her plane on time.”

  They think that’s a great joke. Unfortunately for me it isn’t a joke.

  I’ve always liked to read mysteries. I think it’s because I love the challenge of spotting clues and figuring things out. I started reading Nancy Drews when I was seven. I soon graduated into young adult mysteries—stacks and stacks of them—and now I’m into some of Dad’s old Raymond Chandler and John D. MacDonald stories, and Mom’s Sue Grafton and Mary Higgins Clark novels.

  I’m pretty good at figuring out whodunnit before the last big scene, but Mom never can. At first I thought that her mind went off in directions she’d take if she were writing the story. Or that she got sidetracked by the characters. Or that maybe she became too tangled in motives and means to recognize the crucial clue when she saw it. But I realized what the problem was when, one day, Mom showed me how she developed and put together the parts of a story.

  Mom rarely asks me to help her talk out tough spots in her own books. When she’s organizing and writing her stories, she’s good. She follows the advice of the well-known Perry Mason mystery novelist, Erle Stanley Gardner. In plotting, Gardner wrote, approach the story from the viewpoint of the murderer. The advice works well for Mom when she plots her mystery stories. But it doesn’t help her figure out the solution to other authors’ mystery novels or to crimes that happen in real life because in those cases, you don’t start with the murderer. You have to figure out who that person is.

  Last week, right before my high school’s April spring break, Mom finished writing A Crack in the Computer, her latest mystery novel starring amateur sleuth Audrey Downing. That meant she’d wait a few weeks before beginning the next novel, so when she asked, “Would you like to go to San Antonio?” right away I said, “Sure!” I love San Antonio’s Riverwalk and Jim Cullum’s terrific jazz band that plays most nights there, and the really fab food.

  I made a mistake. If I’d known the reason for the trip, I probably would have tried to argue Mom out of going. If that hadn’t worked, I would have begged to stay behind with my best friend, Traci, because the whole idea of our being in San Antonio was actually morbid.

  It all had to do with Mom’s cousin Arnold Harmony.

  “First cousin, once removed,” Mom always said. That meant he was really her father’s much older first cousin, and Mom was the next generation along. I guess she had to keep saying that because Arnold Harmony was really ancient, and she wouldn’t want people thinking she was anywhere near his age.

  Harmony Chocolates is known across the United States because most folks have probably pigged out on Harmony Chocolates at least once in their lives. They have an awful singing commercial—“Harmony Chocolates—a song in every bite”—that gets into your mind at the worst possible times and won’t leave until you start humming “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” or “Look for the Union Label,” or any jingle just as hard to shake, once you’ve heard it.

  Arnold Harmony, who founded the company, should have just continued making and selling chocolates. But at the age of almost eighty-eight, Arnold decided to rewrite his will and have the new will read to his guests at a slam-bang birthday party.

  Mom insisted that the least we could do, after enjoying the box of Harmony Chocolates we were sent at Christmas each year, was to accept Arnold’s invitation and attend his party.

  “Is he going to leave you some money? Is that why he wants you to be there when the will is read?” I asked Mom.

  “Oh, gracious no. There’s Claudine—his wife—a son named Porter, and a grandson named Logan. I’m sure they’ll inherit his company and his money.” Mom smiled tenderly. “Dear, dear Arnold. Years ago, when I was a little girl, he told me that someday he’d give me Agnes’s musical teapot. I’ve always had happy memories of visits I made to Arnold and Agnes’s with my mother when I was a little girl. Agnes served us tea from that dear little teapot with its pink roses and tiny violets. I’m sure that’s why he invited me to hear the will.”

  A billionaire promises my mom a teapot, and it makes her happy? I guess that’s one of the things I really truly love about her. Of course, she makes money from her mystery novels, but not even close to the riches of Harmony Chocolates.

  “Who’s Agnes, Mom?” I asked. “I thought you said Arnold’s wife is Claudine.”

  “His present wife,” Mom explained. “Agnes died a little over ten years ago. I didn’t get her teapot then, but maybe it was because we had to miss the funeral. I’m afraid that the Harmonys and the Jakeses just haven’t kept up with each other the way we should.”

  “Well, you’re going to your cousin’s birthday party,” I said, “and that should please him.”

  When we arrived on Saturday in San Antonio, we checked into a large, comfortable hotel on the Paseo del Rio—the Riverwalk—and unpacked, putting all our things in the drawers and tucking our suitcases out of sight in the closet. Mom’s a neat freak, which probably comes from years of lining up clues and red herrings and keeping them straight. It’s easier for me to go along with it than make a mess and have to deal with a semihysterical mother.

  Our room overlooked a busy, colorful slice of the Riverwalk, which was fine with me. I opened the sliding glass doors and stepped onto a narrow little balcony. Leaning on the low railing, I could look down eight stories, past rows of small balconies, and watch the people below me. April in San Antonio means festival and flowers. The city couldn’t have been prettier.

  I was able to sneak in a swim and a shower before Mom announced it was time to dress for Cousin Arnold’s reception, which was to be held in the Magnolia Suite on the second floor of this hotel.

  “Why not at his house?” I asked. “He lives in a mansion in San Antonio, doesn’t he?”

  “It’s a comfortable home, but not a mansion,” Mom corrected me. “Arnold never was one for pretensions. I doubt that it has enough bedrooms for his out-of-town guests.”

  As we got off the hotel elevator on the floor where the reception was to be held, I gave a last, wishful glance out the large window to the Riverwalk, with its swarm of brightly costumed people in sequined shawls, ribbon-trimmed full skirts, and decorated sombreros—out to celebrate San Antonio’s annual Battle of the Flowers parade.

  Traci would love this, I thought. I’ll send her a postcard. Then I dutifully trailed along in Mom’s wake until we reached the Magnolia Suite.

  A well-dressed man stood outside the door, scowling to himself. He was probably in his late fifties. He had thin, graying hair and eyebrows that looked like they were doing the Wave. His main interest seemed to be pacing in the hallway, so he hadn’t noticed Mom and me.

  “Porter? Is that you?” Mom asked, and the man started.

  Mom beamed as she put an arm around my shoulders, lightly shoving me forward. “Porter, darling, this is my daughter, Jennifer,” she said.

  I murmured something polite, but he kept his scowl and nodded, then peered through his heavy-rimmed glasses. He attempted a weak smile. “Madeline,” Porter said in a quiet tone, “I’m glad you’re here. You’re just the person I need to talk to.”

  “About what, dear?” Mom asked.

  I noticed Porter glance over his shoulder toward the door to the Magnolia Suite. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw him shudder.

  “Later,” he said. “After this farce is over tonight, we can talk with more privacy.”

  “Let’s go in and join the party,” Mom said, but Porter shook his head.

  “There’ve been too many parties,” he mumbled. “Something must be done.”

  Chapter Two


  The door suddenly opened, and a blond woman, glittering from lots of really big diamonds, stood in the entrance. She looked at Mom without smiling and completely ignored Porter. “You’re Madeline Jakes,” she said. “I’m Claudine Harmony. Arnold will be delighted to see you.”

  Mom gently pushed me forward. “And this is my daughter, Jennifer.”

  Claudine acknowledged me with a slight nod and held open the door to the suite, waiting for us to enter. We followed her into an immense, elegant room with polished tables, muted gold wallpaper, and a huge, glittery chandelier. Claudine looked about Mom’s age. Mom is really attractive with her dark hair and deep blue eyes, which fortunately came along to me in the genes department. She looked great in a blue-and-green chiffon dress with a matching scarf that she liked to wear when she was being interviewed. I didn’t look so bad myself. Mom lets me buy the kind of clothes I like when I need them.

  Claudine ushered us to a huge dark-brown leather wing chair. I realized it was Cousin Arnold I saw wrapped in a deep red robe, with a brown blanket over his legs. He looked like a wrinkled cherry tucked inside its chocolate covering.

  Claudine said, “Here is Madeline, my love, with her daughter, Jessie.”

  “Jenny,” I corrected. “Happy birthday.”

  A tough and twisted birdlike claw emerged from the blanket and grasped my hand. “Jenny,” he said. “How old are you, Jenny? Nineteen? Twenty?”

  “Fifteen,” I answered, immensely flattered.

  “Well, be a good girl and mind your mother,” he said. Then he turned his attention to Mom and seemed to forget I was there. I plopped down in a chair near one of the windows and glanced around the room.

  Other guests had arrived. Nearby I saw a blond, lightly tanned man who was dressed in stonewashed jeans, a white dress shirt, and a navy blazer. I knew he was definitely twenty or over. What I didn’t know was why he was glaring at me.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to be friendly. He just nodded, turning his gaze to the activity outside the window.