MURDER WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS

by Shawn Reilly Simmons

  “Where in New Jersey?” Penelope asked.

  Joey tapped his chin with a finger as he read from the screen. “That incident wasn’t here. The shoplifting and prostitution happened here. The fraud was years ago, looks like upstate New York somewhere. Why is this person of interest to you?” Joey asked, setting down the iPad on the table and moving closer to Penelope.

  “I paid for some groceries for her and who I thought was her mother the day before Thanksgiving,” Penelope said. “And now that woman has been killed, maybe by the same person who killed the dancer. She had my card on her when she died.”

  Joey sat up straighter. He reached out and gently pulled Penelope’s chin around with his finger, so they were eye to eye. “Do not get involved with this woman. She’s a criminal, you don’t know how people like this will react when confronted.”

  Penelope’s gaze fell to his chin. “I know.”

  “Please,” Joey said. “Promise me.”

  Penelope looked him in the eyes. “I promise. I don’t want anything to happen to me either.”

  Chapter 46

  The next morning Penelope rode into the city on the train. She popped her earbuds in and listened to a local news broadcast but kept the volume low and did not let herself become distracted by anything around her. She kept an eye on the people sitting nearby, in an effort to be vigilant like Joey had drilled into her that morning over breakfast at his apartment.

  She checked her text messages again. She hadn’t heard back from Detective Doyle after she sent Helen Chadwick’s name to him before she fell asleep at Joey’s. While she promised Joey she would be careful, she was still going to try and find out where the real Elspeth had disappeared to, and what connection Helen might have to the case, if any. All very carefully, of course.

  “Always know who’s behind you,” Joey had said over coffee in his kitchen that morning. “Cross the street if the same person has followed you for more than two blocks. Hop in a cab the minute you feel off about anyone around.”

  “I’ve got my street smarts,” Penelope said. “I can handle myself.”

  “I don’t like your name coming up in connection with a killer, or this fraud woman,” Joey said. “I know you can handle yourself, but being extra careful is important right now.”

  The train shot into the tunnel and the conductor came through, swaying in the aisle to check the final tickets before arrival. He stopped at a group of girls and waited as they each flashed a pass at him. Penelope caught the last one that was imprinted with the word “Student” in bright blue letters. The conductor tipped his hat at Penelope as he passed.

  Penelope began to gather her things, slipping her earbuds out and tugging her phone from her pocket.

  On the screen was a text with a tiny picture attached. Penelope squinted and pulled it open just as the brakes squealed against the tracks and the car jarred quickly from left to right as it made a slight turn. Penelope tapped on the text and enlarged the picture. At first she couldn’t tell what she was looking at. Then her eyes widened and she gripped the phone tighter as she gazed at the image.

  It was Abigail, her wrists bound and her mouth taped shut, her eyes closed and her head lolling over to one side.

  “Wait,” Penelope said, as the picture began to dissolve and fade away. She focused on Abigail’s face and on the clothes she was wearing. It looked like the same sweatshirt and tank top she’d seen her in yesterday, but she couldn’t tell if the color was right because the picture was pixelating and disappearing right in front of her eyes.

  Penelope stood up from her seat before the train came to a stop, then bolted from the car the minute the doors opened. She jogged up the stairs from the platform, jostling aside slower moving commuters as she took the steps two at a time.

  When she reached the main terminal of Penn Station, she paused near a wide round pillar and looked at her phone again. The picture was gone, but there was a message in its place. It read Hurry Up or # 3 is on U. 5K or she dies.

  With shaking hands Penelope dialed Detective Doyle’s number and pressed the phone to her ear.

  “Yeah?” Doyle answered in his sleepy voice.

  “Someone’s got Abigail!”

  Chapter 47

  Penelope took a cab uptown, willing the driver to move faster, scanning the faces of the people on the sidewalk as they went. She knew this was a useless activity, in a city with more than eight million people, the chances were zero she’d come across the one person she desperately wanted to find. But there was nothing else to do on the ride, and it kept her from jumping out at every red light and making a run for the Theater District.

  When they finally pulled up in front of the Vitrine, she leapt from the cab and sprinted to the apartment building, fumbled her key into the lock and slapped the elevator button. Pressing the button for twelve, she focused on her breath, willing herself to not panic. She pictured Abigail safe in her apartment, free from harm, hoping against hope the girl was fine and this was all a hoax, another cruel prank.

  Penelope hurried down the hallway to Abigail’s apartment, her heart sinking when she saw the door was slightly ajar, the deadbolt keeping it from closing all the way. She tented her fingers and pushed it open slowly, peering inside as much as the space would allow, ready to duck back in the hallway quickly if she came upon anyone besides Abigail inside.

  The elevator pinged in the hallway behind her as she opened the door the whole way.

  It was empty, no sign of Abigail in the tiny studio.

  “Step back,” Doyle said behind her. “Wait out in the hallway, Penelope.”

  “She’s gone,” Penelope said.

  Doyle gave her a sympathetic glance then stepped inside, a uniformed officer he’d brought with him following closely behind.

  “Looks like struggle happened here,” Doyle said.

  Penelope saw the piles of clothes strewn around the room and the unmade beds he was looking at. “I think that’s how she kept the place, actually.”

  Doyle nodded slightly and pointed to a chair near the window that was overturned. “That’s something maybe.”

  Penelope’s heart sank as she stared at the chair. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Doyle looked in the sink and pulled open the refrigerator, his eyes roving over the takeout cartons and a bottle of vodka chilling in the freezer. “Not a health nut, I see.”

  “Detective,” Penelope said. “Someone is holding her captive. We have to find her.”

  “Get a team down here,” he said to the uniformed officer. “Let’s look for prints, question the rest of the girls on the floor.”

  The officer nodded sharply and stepped past Penelope out into the hallway, pulling his phone out to make a call.

  “This one isn’t like the others then,” Doyle said. “If there’s a connection. We haven’t seen a photograph of the victim before the...end. Actually I still haven’t seen the photo.” He gave Penelope a stern glance.

  “It disappeared,” Penelope said. “I swear I saw her.”

  Doyle raised his hand and showed her his palm. “I believe you. I just don’t know what this guy is after. Killing a dancer, killing an older homeless woman, kidnapping another dancer, the friend of the murdered girl. Do you see what I’m getting at here?”

  “They don’t match each other,” Penelope said. “But they’re related. Abigail and Elspeth through their friendship.”

  “And Gabby Bainbridge through the weapon,” Doyle said.

  “And Bainbridge connects the theater too,” Penelope added.

  “One big puzzle with too many clues to make any sense. It doesn’t fit.”

  “Don’t forget the attack on Armand,” Penelope said. “Another box ticked for the theater.”

  Doyle put his hands on his hips and looked around the apartment. “The last thing I want is another dead girl on my watch.”


  Chapter 48

  Penelope headed up to the suite and let herself in. Several of the crew members had arrived already and were working quietly either at the table or in the kitchen nook.

  Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and she pulled it out quickly, staring at an unfamiliar number. She stepped into the empty bedroom suite and answered.

  “Hello?” she said cautiously.

  “Hello, this is John from Archer Academy returning your call,” a man’s voice said.

  “Where?”

  “Archer? You left a message inquiring about a reference from one of our students?”

  “Oh, right,” Penelope said, remembering Elspeth’s résumé.

  “I’m sorry to say we don’t have a student registered by the name of Elspeth Connor, so we can’t confirm the reference.”

  “That’s strange,” Penelope said. “It was listed on her CV, the one she used to apply for work.”

  “It’s not that strange,” the man said knowingly. “I get one or two a month, people listing academic credentials they don’t quite have.”

  “But it’s so easy to check that,” Penelope said.

  “And still a lot of employers don’t bother,” the man said. “Have a nice day.”

  “Wait,” Penelope said. “Would you be able to check another name for me?”

  “I can confirm if they have been a student here,” the man said. “I can’t share other information besides that confirmation and the years of attendance.”

  “Okay,” Penelope said, thinking. “I have a couple of other résumés here. Any students named Bainbridge? In the past ten years or so?”

  “First name?” the man asked.

  “Gabrielle,” Penelope said, knowing Gabby would be too old, but thinking she should say something. She spelled the last name for him and listened to keys clicking on the other end of the line.

  “Sorry, no Bainbridges in the past ten years,” the man said. “You got another fraudulent résumé.”

  “Fraud,” Penelope murmured, then quickly said, “I have one more name for you to check.”

  “Go ahead,” the man said, amusement in his voice.

  “Chadwick,” Penelope said. “Helen Chadwick.”

  The typing continued and then a pause. “I have a Cassie Chadwick, confirmed as a student, however she did not complete the program here.”

  “Cassie Chadwick,” Penelope said. “Was she a culinary student?”

  “No, she was enrolled in beginning dance, but she dropped out after one term. Two years ago.”

  “And are you a community college?” Penelope asked.

  “We’re a trade school, but we have academic courses too, much like a community college, and we’re accredited with the New York University system. We’re the largest trade school in the area,” he said.

  “Where exactly are you located?” Penelope asked.

  “Upstate,” the man said. “Just north of Syracuse.”

  Chapter 49

  Arlena came out of the bedroom and stretched her arms over her head just as Penelope hung up the phone and came out into the main part of the suite. She’d left a message for Doyle about Cassie Chadwick.

  Arlena had on jeans and a sweater, and her long black hair was tousled from sleep.

  “Did you spend the night?” Penelope asked.

  “Yes,” Arlena said with a yawn. “I was watching the dailies and then the editing team taught me how to use their equipment. We cut a few scenes from the show last night.”

  “The show must go on,” Penelope said. “Even after the artistic director gets flung over a balcony.”

  “Hey,” Arlena said, concern creasing her sleepy face. “What’s up?”

  Penelope explained about the picture she’d seen of Abigail. The woman in the kitchenette glanced up from her notes and eyed Penelope curiously.

  “Did you happen to hear anything last night?” Penelope asked.

  “No,” Arlena said. “I’m sorry. We were working and then I conked out for a few hours.”

  “We need to keep the doors locked all the time up here,” Penelope said to the room. Everyone nodded, then went back to their tasks.

  A knock on the door made Penelope jump, and Arlena placed a hand on her shoulder. “Take a seat, relax for a bit. Or better yet, why don’t you lie down for a while in the bedroom.”

  “I don’t think I can rest,” Penelope said. “I’m too worried about Abigail.”

  Arlena went to the door and opened it after a peek through the peephole, and Penelope went to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee.

  “Come in,” Arlena said.

  Penelope did a double take when she saw the young woman in the doorway.

  “We can sit over here, have our interview,” Arlena said. “Pen, this is…”

  “Chamay,” Penelope said. “From Steiners. The elf in the coffee shop.”

  “That’s right,” Chamay said with a laugh. “I thought you were going to say the elf on the shelf for a minute.”

  Chamay had changed out of her elf outfit and into a pair of black jeans, sneakers and a tight pink sweater. “I’ve applied to be Arlena’s assistant.”

  “How did you know she needed an assistant?” Penelope asked.

  “I saw an announcement through the agency I’m signed up with for temp to permanent work,” Chamay said.

  “You advertised you were looking for an assistant?” Penelope asked Arlena.

  “Not exactly an advertisement. It’s a private agency,” Chamay said. “We register and have to be accepted to get the notices. The agency does background checks, things like that. I have as one of my preferences to work as an assistant, in a significant position, for a significant boss.”

  “Thanks for responding to the request,” Arlena said.

  Penelope set her coffee mug down on the counter. “I think I will rest for a minute.”

  “Yeah,” Arlena said. “You’ve had a shock.”

  Penelope walked quickly into the bedroom and sat at the edge of the bed, her forearms on her thighs and her hands dangling between her legs. A row of file boxes had been stacked up against the back wall. Some numbers and what looked like years scrawled in magic marker on the side. Penelope lifted the lid on the closest one and saw a stack of photos and a few reels of tape. She went back to the bed and laid back, closing her eyes for a moment to try and sort through all of the information she had in her mind, piecing the elements of everything she knew together.

  After a few minutes she heard a sharp laugh from the other side of the door and voices raised in jovial conversation. She felt like she was on another planet, one filled with angst and worry. What was happening to Abigail right now? Was she okay, or was she going to end up stuffed in some kind of case and dumped in an alley somewhere in the city? And where would it be this time? And how could she stop it?

  Chapter 50

  Penelope sat up in bed and was disoriented for a moment, then remembered she was in the suite in the apartment building.

  “Abigail,” she said, snatching her phone from the comforter next to her. The phone buzzed again, and she could see that it was the second notification and that she’d probably been roused from her doze by the first.

  Another image appeared in thumbnail from an unknown number, and Penelope opened it. This time she immediately took a screenshot of the picture before it started pixelating away. It was Abigail again, her eyes open wide in fear. Her mouth was still taped, but it looked like more had been added. And to Penelope’s dismay, a bruise had formed around one of her eyes, and her left cheek was red as if it had been struck.

  Penelope took another screen shot, trying to see anything in the background of the picture that might give her an indication of where Abigail was being held.

  The photo was gone and the message appeared: # 3 Is Running Out of Time. 5K or she dies.<
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  Penelope forwarded the message and the screenshot of the picture to Detective Doyle, then awaited his response. After a moment of silence Penelope heard the outer door of the suite open and familiar voices fill the room on the other side of the bedroom door. She heard Max for sure, and Randall too.

  Stepping into the suite, she saw both of them, and Sybil, Jackson and Dakota too. The little girl was dressed in a green coat with red tights and shiny Mary Janes. Jackson was standing behind one of the crew, watching the monitor as the editor worked on cutting some film.

  “Daddy,” Arlena said. “I didn’t know the kids were coming up.”

  “We’re taking them to the matinee,” Randall said, eyeing the crew at work and nodding approvingly. “They’ve never seen the Christmas Extravaganza. It will be a treat for all of us. But first, here are some notes I made from reading Ruby’s diary. I finally finished last night.”

  “What did you find out?” Arlena asked.

  “I think from what I have put together, my mother was involved with a building developer turned politician. A guy named Aaron Beckwith.”

  “As in the Beckwith Group? The company that owns the theater?” Arlena asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Okay, I’ll read through all of this later, see what narrative thread it fits the best with, if it does at all. Thanks, Daddy.” She set the notes down on the table.

  “I’m here to help too, with the production, whatever you need,” Max said to Arlena.

  “What happened to you?” Randall asked, eyeing Penelope in the doorway. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I hope not,” Penelope said. “I got another picture of Abigail. I’ve sent it to the police.”

  “What is happening?” Sybil asked, keeping her eye on Dakota, who had begun to twirl in place in front of Penelope.

  “It’s…” Penelope began. “It’s not something…”