by Lotta Smith
Wicked in Wonderland:
Strawberry Éclair Murder
Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery:
Book 11
By Lotta Smith
Copyright
Wicked in Wonderland© 2017 Lotta Smith.
Cover copyright 2017 Molly Burton at Breezy Reads
Editing and proofreading: Hot Tree Editing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the author/and publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. None of the characters in this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to locales, actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and an unintentional.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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PROLOGUE
12:28 A.M., February 3rd
The sky was dark and the street was quiet, as if she’d just wandered into a completely different world. Just five minutes before, she was at a bakery that was open throughout the night, and the hustle and bustle at the store still remained in her ears, but one step inside the residential area and it was total silence.
It was a cloudy night with occasional rain showers, but when Eve Wellington looked up at the sky, the dark clouds had suddenly cleared away and the moon showed its face as if it was playing peekaboo with her. The pale moon was quite round, but it wasn’t yet full.
Taking in the cold air that had a good amount of humidity with a hint of fresh scent from rosemary bushes nearby, Eve was almost bouncing on the pavement rather than quietly walking on it. It had been eight years since she left her childhood home in Wisconsin and moved to New York City, where she always dreamed about since she used to binge-watch Sex and the City between binge-reading Wonder Woman as a schoolgirl. And on that particular night, she was full of confidence and satisfaction—perhaps for the first time in her entire twenty-six years of life. Indeed, she had reasons to be proud of herself. She had practically won it all. She had a successful career as one of the most popular graphic novel artists, a fancy car—though she wasn’t using it that night as she’d expected to have some drinks at the party— and a fancy residence, a detached house, not a condo in the trendy Upper West Side in Manhattan.
In addition, her latest work was about to be turned into a TV show. If that didn’t qualify as a success, she didn’t know what would.
Admiring the pale blue moon that almost appeared silver, Eve stopped walking. Despite the frigid weather in the middle of winter in Manhattan, she didn’t feel cold at all. Perhaps that had something to do with her being drunk, but just like any person under the influence, she didn’t feel drunk at all. Not that she was sober, but she was too drunk to be aware of her drunkenness.
Then again, she was drunk. Carrying a Valentino purse in one hand and a brown bakery bag in the other, her gait resembled that of a waddling penguin. She was humming to some tune she’d just composed herself.
Hearing footsteps, she looked back but saw no one. Eve chuckled, figuring she’d had too much vodka for the night. Deciding to sober up before she reached her home, she turned on her heels to resume walking. Not that she had suddenly come up with some kind of a special remedy for drunken stupor, but just making up her mind to sober up seemed to work. At least, in her head, this method was supposed to work like magic.
As she started ambling, she clasped her purse and the brown bag tighter. The purse was pricey, and she didn’t want to drop the brown bag and ruin her purchased items. To be honest, she didn’t really remember what she’d bought five minutes prior, but considering she’d bothered making a purchase at such a grave hour, it must have been important.
Again, she felt the creepy sensation of someone approaching her, as if they were crawling toward her. She rushed forward, or at least she believed she was rushing. Her body was still uncoordinated, and her legs weren’t fully cooperating with her brain, but they were moving. Yes, she was moving! Okay, she was only as fast as a snail, but she was moving, and that was what mattered.
Telling herself it was all in her mind, she shrugged off the eerie feelings and tried to forget about it. Eve’s specialty was something like a fusion between suspense and horror in her graphic novels, and as a result, the bloody images she created sometimes haunted her to the point that she had to switch on all the lights at home. At times, she felt compelled to carefully search her surroundings to see if one of the monsters she’d created wasn’t lurking in the darkness, ready to strike her.
Eve shivered, feeling drops of cold water hitting her face.
It started raining again. The moon must have hidden behind the thick clouds. The dark street was even darker. What a shame she wasn’t carrying an umbrella.
She took a deep breath and lightly slapped her cheeks with her palms in an attempt to sober up, needing to make it home as quickly as possible.
“Okay,” she said to herself, planning to say, “let’s make it quick,” but she didn’t get to finish the sentence.
All of a sudden, a sharp pain stabbed through her back, close to the spine.
She sucked in air. Under normal circumstances, she would have shrieked at the top of her lungs, waking every resident in the neighborhood, driving them mad. Perhaps some of them might have called the police…
But the pain was so intense that she couldn’t even gasp.
Breathing heavily, Eve stumbled forward a few steps, but it didn’t take five seconds until she collapsed onto the wet, cold pavement.
Lying on the hard asphalt, she reached for her back, attempting to assess the damage. She was carrying a cell phone in her purse, and calling 911 would have been a better idea, but she was so drunk and in pain that logical thinking wasn’t something she was capable of at that moment.
Something wet and syrupy stuck on her fingers from her back. No thanks to the darkness, she couldn’t see it clearly, but at the same time, she wasn’t thrilled about confirming its dark red color.
She had a hunch that the sticky liquid was her blood. If it was some total stranger lying on the pavement and bleeding madly, Eve would definitely have taken a moment to observe the wound and the way blood oozed out. She might have even made a quick sketch of the victim and the surroundings for research purposes, using her phone screen as the light source. Of course, she’d proceed to her research after calling for help. She might be slightly obsessed when it came to everything involved with her art and career, but she wasn’t a cold-blooded psychopath.
Oh, I have to keep my head clear so I’ll be able to recall this moment and use this scene sometime in the…
Considering she’d just been stabbed, Eve wasn’t panicked. Of course, a part of her—an ordinary young, single woman part, that is—was totally freaking out, but the storyteller part of her was so keen on utilizing this painful moment for her future projects. She tried to stay awake, but she felt so tired and numb. All she could think about was possible scenes and situations to feature this thrilling yet gut-wrenchi
ng moment.
She was expecting to recover soon. She never expected to die, but the blood was draining out of her, and so was her life.
CHAPTER 1
“This should be the place,” Rick said, glancing at the map on his phone screen and then checking the address on the signboard of one of the apartment complexes.
“Oh, here?” I looked around. If I were a writer specializing in mystery or horror, I would have been thrilled. The neighborhood wasn’t anything special, just something ordinary, as in textbook ordinary. Murders often took place in mundane and somewhat boring places, and the pathway where we stood seemed like one of those “ideal” crime scene locations.
We were on a relatively narrow pathway that connected Amsterdam Avenue and Columbus Avenue on the Upper West Side. The two main streets were fully lined with stores, restaurants, and cafés, but the neighborhood we were visiting was more residential than commercial. Low- to midrise condos were standing on both sides, peppered with vending machines selling newspaper. The buildings were blocking what little lights were illuminated from the streetlamps and the mid-winter moon. The tallish buildings also seemed to be functioning as soundproof walls; all the activity on the main streets was completely inaudible in this neighborhood.
“So, let’s make it quick.” Rick frowned as he impatiently tapped on the pavement with the tip of his Oxford shoes. There were no parties or social gatherings planned, and he didn’t fancy his quiet evening interrupted by a case that butted in last minute.
“Okay,” I agreed. Indeed, I was also looking forward to spending a cozy evening in—eating takeout dinner, taking a long, hot bath, and doing nothing but relaxing.
“Hell, why would Hernandez and the FBI be involved in this and dragging us to help him? It’s not a serial killer, or even a kidnapping. NYPD should be able to solve this on their own. If I recall it correctly, they, along with the FBI, are two sections of law enforcement with the biggest resources and manpower, not just in this nation but the whole world,” Rick kept on bitching.
“For your information,” I said, rolling my eyes, “it’s not just a regular single homicide case for Hernandez and Chief DeLaurentis. We’re talking about a very special case.” I wiggled my fingers. “Their daughter, Kathy, happens to be the biggest fan of the victim, and she wants justice served—and she wants it so badly. As loving parents, neither Hernandez nor Chief DeLaurentis can ignore this case being unsolved. Despite being divorced, they’re such a strong team when it comes to everything about their daughter.”
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “Talk about mixing public business with personal interest.” Muttering, he shook his head.
“Come on, it’s kinda refreshing to see him as a loving dad instead of an older, grumpier version of Iron Man with the permanent frown between his eyes.” Chuckling, I nudged Rick’s elbow.
“Hmm, you have a point.” He nodded, twirling a lock of my hair between his long, nimble fingers. “Except it would be better if they were our paying clients.”
“Oh… that’s right. That would be lovely.” I tilted my head to the side, trying my best to pretend to be dazed and confused about the very reason that the head of the FBI’s New York City headquarters and his ex-wife, NYPD’s chief, were asking for our services free of charge.
My name is Amanda Rowling, and Rick is my husband. He’s the COO and heir to USCAB—United States Cover All Bases—a security-based conglomerate run by his dad, Dan. And I’m the chief agent of USCAB’s Paranormal Cases Division.
Yes, you heard me right. I said paranormal, as in supernatural, and USCAB, whose sector is best described as no-nonsense, actually has a section dealing with paranormal activities. Actually, the reason I’m the head of this special section is because I’m the only member of it, but I usually omit that part unless someone persistently questions me. Some people are really nosy.
Before joining his family company, Rick used to be a badass FBI agent, and I was his assistant. When he left the Feds, I followed suit and joined USCAB. At first I was working as his part-time secretary, but the demands for someone who can talk to dead people are unexpectedly high, even in the security sector, and my skill somehow fit their needs.
Sheldon Hernandez used to be our boss at the FBI. USCAB has been the biggest contractor for governmental sections, like the FBI and the police forces throughout the US, and under normal circumstances, they customarily paid us for the job. Except this time was different. When I was new to USCAB, I was involved in a murder case that wasn’t even considered as a case by the police. While working on that, I needed some help from law enforcement or USCAB, but Rick was busy, and I was merely a part-time assistant. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to use the company’s resources and manpower, so I made a call to Hernandez for help. He generously helped me, but a little GPS tracking turned out to be… well, pricey.
At first, we were bracing to do some complimentary work for the FBI, dealing with regular cases, but that didn’t happen for months. When Hernandez called my direct phone line sitting on my desk in the corner of Rick’s office at the company—at first, USCAB was planning to assign an office for me, but in order to make up for the freebie gigs, they decided to save money by adding a new desk in a corner of the COO’s office—Rick was attending a conference, and I was idly sitting at my desk, thinking about things that were unimportant and oh-so-important at the same time. Like Schrodinger’s cat in the box, which is dead and alive at the same time until you confirm its life status, thinking about what to have for dinner and wondering about the possible plans for the upcoming Valentine’s Day was oh-so-important unless ruled out otherwise.
Anyway, I was deep in pink, fluffy clouds, otherwise known as my optimistic imagination, when the phone rang. In my head, I was on a romantic getaway at an exotic beach resort. Had I been allowed to proceed with my imagination, I was definitely going to have an epic moment of my lifetime. Perhaps I could have had sex on the beach—and I’m not talking about the tropical drink with a little umbrella in it. In my head, I was wearing nothing but a really tiny bikini. The sand was white, the sea was a mesmerizing emerald green—just like Rick’s eyes—and I was feeling the soft touches of the waves and the softer touches of his fingers. The perks of using your imagination was that you didn’t need to worry about getting all the little particles of sand inside every tiny orifice in your body, which you’d probably wish to keep as clean and dirt-free as possible.
Under normal circumstances, Jackie—my flamboyant, noisy and nosy BFF—tended to butt in during the climax of my romantic daydream, but on this special day, she wasn’t hanging around me. She had plans for the night, and she was really busy preparing for the hottest date of the century.
Anyway, when I was about to roll on the sand, doing X-rated acrobatic movements that I would never have managed to accomplish unless somehow gravity stopped functioning, the phone rang. And voila, Hernandez needed my help with a murder case.
About a week ago, Eve Wellington, the biggest rising star of the decade in the field of graphic novels targeting female readers, was found dead, stabbed in the back. It was clearly a murder, but due to the lack of physical evidence and the fact that the rain had washed away whatever traces the killer had left at the crime scene, they hadn’t been caught. And according to Hernandez, it was the kind of case only I had the potential to close quickly so justice could be delivered and a smile could be brought to Kathy’s lovely face.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a modern-day Sherlock Holmes who can point at the killer, saying, “The butler did it!” just by glancing at the crime scene for a few seconds. Unfortunately, I don’t have super-deductive skills manifested by many of the detectives in pop culture. I’m not even an expert in forensic science. Okay, in my previous life, I was a medical student, so I want to believe I have more knowledge and expertise in medicine compared to the average Joe and Jane. Then again, it’s also true that I got kicked out of med school just a year or so short of graduation, and to my dismay, I had to kiss m
edicine goodbye before I got to witness anything juicy.
Of course, what Hernandez wanted me to do was meet the murder victim, talk to her, and ask who killed her in such a brutal manner. Usually, killers don’t bother turning themselves in to the police to make it easier to arrest them, but the murder victims are more than happy to share how they ended up being killed and who did it. Once you know the whodunit part, solving murder cases can’t get any easier. Of course, we tend to get stuck with occasional issues such as the victim’s memory having slipped off due to the emotional trauma of… well, being murdered.
“So?” Rick gave me an expectant glance.
“So, what?” I looked back at him.
“Where’s the vic?” He patted my shoulder, his word sounding more like a wish rather than a question.
“Well….” I scanned around the place, squinting. The pathway wasn’t crowded with people, and the occasional passersby seemed like living humans. Besides that, most of them didn’t match the victim’s age or body shape. “So far I’m not seeing….”
I trailed off as a young, petite woman with pink hair approached us and looked up at Rick’s perfectly sculpted face.
“Look at the moon!” she said, pointing at the round moon that should have been full a few days ago. “Suppose we’re creating a scene under this moon. What would it be like? Should we go with romance, in which two characters who’ve been previously fighting like cats and dogs, arguing, like, 98 percent of the time, finally coming to terms with their hidden affection, desire, and lust toward each other? Or else one of those tricky scenes in which the readers are expecting the couple to have an oh-so-passionate kiss or kinky sex, but the guy turns out to be a monster killer without him noticing it, and despite his fondness toward the girl, he kills her mercilessly in a brutal manner.”
As I watched her speaking enthusiastically, I immediately recognized her as our victim, Eve Wellington. Not just because she looked exactly like the photo provided by Hernandez, but crimson blood had seeped into her light blue dress, making it look almost purple.