The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “Any ideas what the mask is about?”

  “Not a clue. Obviously if a mask was left at the Vegas crime scene, that would pretty much incriminate Jenkins, though.”

  “That’s for sure. I’ll check and see what I can find out and let you know.”

  “Thank you, Detective, you’ve been quite helpful.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for calling.”

  Hagstrom started to disconnect but suddenly said, “Wait, Inspector—I just thought of something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering—you said that your suspect’s murder victim was wearing a mask, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Was the woman in any sort of position that might suggest she was posed by the killer?”

  “Yes, you could say that. She was found lying completely nude on her back with the mask placed over her face. And her legs were spread open. Why do you ask?”

  “Jenkins also posed his victims—in a similar manner I might add but without a mask. After he posed them, he took photos of them with an instant camera. After his arrest we discovered his photos and realized he had used some of them as references for paintings he’d done. Jenkins was an accomplished artist—I’ll give him that. His paintings were dark and creepy but incredibly faithful to the photos of his victims.”

  “Holy Christ,” Hogarth hissed. “A painter, you say?”

  “Yeah, what’s the matter?”

  “I must go now, Detective—something’s come up. Thanks for your time.”

  Hogarth heard the detective object as he disconnected.

  “What’s wrong, Clive? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “Drive us to Chelmsford, Molly—and step on it!”

  Chapter 28

  Time for a break, he thought. Mason stood back and surveyed the progress on his newest masterpiece. Not bad, but he still had a long way to go. His Parisian mentor had once commended him on the speed and accuracy with which he could sketch out a scene, but added that his actual paint application by comparison was dismally slow. Like everything else he did, Mason was meticulous and patient to a fault. The colors had to be just right, the strokes bold and precise, without being overly so. The lighting of the scene had to actually glow—to appear as though the paint on the canvas was electrically charged—or there was no use in wasting his time. These were all vital components of his distinctive style and what made him so good at what he did.

  He took another look at the photo of Olivia he’d printed out, taped to the tray of his easel. Comparing it to the rendering on the canvas, he realized that his proportions were a tad off. Her body wasn’t being done justice by the angle he’d positioned her on the floor. He would have to work on that later.

  He was trying to do too much in a single day, which explained why his painting was off. He needed to chill out for a while and take it easy—maybe start all over after a short nap. He’d been burning the candle at both ends since accompanying Oliva to her apartment the night before.

  He lay down his brush and palette and went into the kitchen. He was certainly tired enough to take a nap but decided that some wine and a little music first wouldn’t hurt any. He poured himself a glass of Chardonnay and retired to the living room, went over to his desk, switched on the stereo amp and chose a playlist from his iPad. As Ben E. King’s Stand By Me played, he stretched out on his easy chair and picked up the book lying on the end table. Turning to the first page, he read the barely legible scrawl written in black Sharpie: To Ann, best wishes for a speedy recovery! – Sam Middleton

  Sorry, Sam, but I’m afraid Ann didn’t quite make it.

  He grinned weakly as he recalled watching Sam Middleton stand up there before his adoring fans, reading a passage from the book he’d written about Stanley Jenkins. What a fucking thief! To think that Ann’s husband created such a mockery of him, painting him as some kind of psycho murderer and then ended up selling enough books to earn him a book signing in London. Ludicrous!

  But Trent Mason would have the last laugh. He’d already proven what a total loser the author was last Sunday. Hell, Mister Big Mystery Writer couldn’t spot a bad guy if he was staring him right in the face, which was exactly what he’d done! Talk about lame. Not to mention ironic. He couldn’t wait to tell him about it tonight. Sam would shit his pants.

  Fate sure works in peculiar ways, he thought. Who would have ever thought he’d just happen to see an ad in the London Times for a book store hosting a bunch of authors that included of all people, Sam Middleton! Like, how unreal is that? It took him about half a second to decide he would crash Sam’s little powwow with his English fans just for the fun of it. He’d bought a ticket that same day and couldn’t wait to attend the event.

  As he’d sat there listening to Sam tell his fans how he had actually helped the police catch the real murderer portrayed in his book, Mason had nearly blown a gasket. The horrible memories of the night that had constantly plagued him in prison had come rushing back in crystal clarity. He saw himself in the loft of his country hideaway lying on top of Ann Middleton. She was putting up one hell of a fight—he had just ripped off her bathing suit and was about to hump her before killing her. She had already broken a wine glass on his cheek before bolting out of his Jacuzzi as if he were the ugliest, most revolting monster imaginable. And all he’d wanted to do was begin a new life with her.

  He was about to smack her when he’d suddenly heard voices. It was the police. And Sam Middleton was with them. He had grabbed a length of picture hanging wire, wrapped it tightly around Ann’s throat and threatened to kill her if they didn’t do as he said. That’s when he found out how they’d caught up to him—fucking Sam had matched up the Polaroids he’d shot. Then all of a sudden the deafening blast from a gun and a Sheriff’s deputy stormed in from the balcony. Then it was all over.

  All because of Sam Middleton.

  Feeling his anger mounting uncontrollably, Mason stared at the dedication Middleton had written and grabbed a pencil from out of the pocket of his smock. Below Sam’s inscription he pressed down on the pencil so hard, he broke the lead twice as he wrote:

  You will be joining your beloved Ann tonight, motherfucker! And good riddance to both of you as you burn in hell!

  Mason had bit down on his tongue with such force he nearly severed it in two. Howling in agony he ran over to the kitchen sink as blood poured out from the corner of his mouth. He grabbed a dishtowel and held it to his tongue in an effort to stop the bleeding, but the towel turned crimson red within seconds. Fearing he’d have to run to a clinic to get it sutured before he bled to death, he jerked one of the counter drawers open and rifled through it in a frenzy. He found a spool of thread and frantically threaded the needle before running into the bathroom. Staring in the mirror at his mortified face, he removed the towel gingerly, took hold of his ravaged tongue between his thumb and forefinger and held on to it tightly. He readied the needle near the outer edge of his lacerated tongue, held his breath and forced the needle into his flesh before he had a chance to change his mind. The pain was excruciating and he nearly passed out. With all the determination he could muster, he pushed the needle on through his tongue until the point came through the other side. He then took hold of it and pulled the needle all the way through, unnerved at how much force it took to accomplish the task. Blood continued pouring out at an alarming rate, forcing him to hurriedly continue the gruesome task of sewing the pieces together. It took every bit of resolve he possessed to poke and pull until he had at last successfully joined the pieces together enough to slow down the bleeding to a trickle. He managed to tie a small knot in the thread before taking a pair of scissors and snipping off the needle and remaining thread.

  Reeling from the exhausting stress and pain, he located a bottle of Bacardi 151 proof rum, took a huge swig and swished it around in his mouth, hoping to kill the germs and prevent infection. After repeating this process a few times, he gulped down four Advils, chased down by another s
hot of straight rum. He then returned to the easy chair and lay back in it, holding a paper towel against his sore, throbbing tongue.

  Aware that his unbridled rage had nearly sent him to the hospital this time, he now felt utterly foolish. Sam Middleton had been the reason for his fury. And the harder he tried to dismiss it from his mind, the more he was determined to see that this would never happen again.

  Sam Middleton must die.

  Chapter 29

  Not long after the police inspectors left Nicole’s office, Jenny Matlin collected her flash drive and departed as well. Nicole stared at Sam, her eyes doleful.

  “I never realized how much you and your family have been through, Sam. And to think there’s a possibility that this Jenkins monster may have also murdered your wife.”

  “Now you understand why I want to see him caught. The inspector didn’t seem very keen on my theory, though, did he?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He seems like the analytical type who needs time to consider the facts before making any commitment. He probably doesn’t want to raise any false hopes.”

  “Well, the bottom line is that if I’m right about Jenkins and he isn’t caught soon, he will definitely strike again. My guess is that he’s developed an insatiable appetite for murder, having killed two women in less than a month on two different continents.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right about Jenkins. Then your troubles will be over when they nab him once and for all.”

  “Trust me, my fingers are crossed.”

  “So what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to give that any thought.”

  “Would you fancy going out for dinner a bit later—my treat?”

  “I’d love to—but let me take care of it, please. You’ve already done so much and I want to pay you back.”

  “Hmm, we’ll discuss that later. I’m going to finish up some work here and should be able to get away in a couple of hours. Why don’t I come to pick you up at say, half past six?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  She stepped over and kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t know why I did that—I hope you didn’t mind.”

  “Are you kidding? It just made my day.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  Sam followed Nicole down to the first floor, gave her a parting hug and left the shop. He decided to walk a while before hailing a cab. The crisp, cool weather was invigorating and he needed to air his thoughts. He wondered if he’d jumped the gun calling the police about Stanley Jenkins. While telling the detectives his story, he realized how unbelievable it must have sounded to them. And although he seriously doubted Hogarth would be in any hurry to check out his theory, Sam sincerely believed that the detective wasn’t ruling it out. Perhaps that was all he could hope for.

  His thoughts shifted to Nicole Heaton. As he’d recounted his past history with Jenkins, he couldn’t help but notice that the shop owner was shocked by what she heard. He saw in her eyes that she realized the similarities between the sudden, violent deaths of their respective spouses. They were kindred spirits in a sense; bound together by the common force of bereavement.

  After arriving back at the hotel, Sam took another shower and put on a fresh change of clothes. He was looking forward to dinner with Nicole and hoped they could keep Jenkins and everything else negative out of their conversation. It would be nice to just have a good time and enjoy each other’s company after all that had transpired today. He only had one more full day in London and then all of this would be over. He wanted to leave here on a positive note.

  Twenty minutes left before Nicole was to pick him up, Sam debated whether or not to call Maisy. He decided to wait until he returned from dinner so they’d have more time to talk. There was plenty to chat about and he was curious how she would react to the latest developments.

  Nicole pulled up to the hotel right on time. Sam hopped in and did a double-take when he saw what she was wearing. She had changed into a low-cut black sleeveless dress and heels; her hair was pulled up off her shoulders, giving her a fresh, sultry look. He was unable to hide his surprise at this unexpected metamorphosis of the bookshop owner.

  “You look awesome!”

  “Thanks, Sam. I hope it’s not too much—I just like to get done up every once in a while as a reminder that there’s a life beyond retail sales. Bought this dress a month ago and thought this would be a good time to finally wear it.”

  “Believe me, it’s not too much. And I hope you don’t mind me gaping at you, but it’s impossible not to.”

  “Go ahead and gape—I can take it!” she joked.

  Nicole pulled out on to the street and Sam couldn’t help but stare at her as she maneuvered the little car in traffic. She had put on just enough makeup to enhance her features and that little touch went a long way in bringing out her natural beauty. If he’d had any doubts before, he didn’t now: Nicole Heaton was a knockout.

  “So where are we going?” he asked.

  “To a little place with the best Italian food in town. I recall you saying you loved Italian and I think you’ll agree this place is wonderful.”

  “Sounds great—I’m starving.”

  Nicole drove east past Piccadilly and in fifteen minutes they arrived in an area that seemed off the beaten path for London. She pulled into a garage and parked.

  “Where are we?”

  “City University’s a few blocks that way.” She pointed.

  “I’ve heard of it—it has an excellent journalism department.”

  “Some think it’s the best in the UK.”

  They walked a short distance and arrived at a restaurant called Mama Mia’s.

  “Prepare to be impressed.” She smiled.

  The place was small and cozy, complete with a crackling fire in the fireplace. The aromas wafting through the air literally made Sam’s mouth water. “It smells like heaven in here.”

  “Wait until you taste heaven,” Nicole declared.

  Nicole ordered a dry white wine and Sam a beer. When their drinks came, Nicole proposed a toast.

  “To my American guest. May you find all the happiness and success you so much deserve.”

  Glasses clinked. “Thank you,” Sam said softly. “And here’s to my English hostess, who has shown me the best time a guy could hope for.”

  After the toast Nicole said, “I’m curious—are you presently going out with anybody back in the States?”

  The question was so direct and unexpected Sam wasn’t sure how to respond. “Uh, not really. Well, there’s this one woman I met a few weeks ago. We’ve been out a few times, but that’s about the extent of it.”

  “I see now that I’ve managed to embarrass you. I apologize. My husband used to get so angry at me whenever I did something like that. Used to drive him bonkers.”

  “Did something like what?”

  “Ask people what he called ‘pointed questions’ off the cuff. He said it was rude and showed a lack of tact. And he was right, actually. I don’t understand why it happens but sometimes things just slip out at the oddest, most awkward times. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “You’re so understanding. I admire you for that.”

  “So what about you, Nicole, since we’re on the subject? Are you seeing anybody?”

  “Like I said before, I haven’t been able to come out of my shell since Benjamin died. And I most likely never will.”

  “Why do you say that? I mean, you never know when someone may come along you go head over heels for. It’s possible, you know. As long as you don’t insist on denying yourself any sort of feelings, that is.”

  “That’s exactly what I do. I can’t fool myself into thinking there’s anybody else in the world who can fill my husband’s shoes. He was just that perfect for me. It’s as simple as that.”

  Sam thought of Ann and his burgeoning relationship with Maisy. “I’ve always th
ought that way myself. Nobody could ever take the place of Ann. But I’ve finally admitted to myself that there’s a slim possibility somebody could come along who I enjoy being with and could eventually develop a relationship with in time. I may feel guilty about it, but I also know that although Ann is irreplaceable, it doesn’t mean I should deny myself companionship with another woman. They’re two different things, the way I look at it. Does that make any sense?”

  “When you put it like that, I guess it does. I just don’t fancy myself open-minded enough to let that sort of thing happen. You apparently can, which is commendable.”

  “I’m not sure open-minded is the right word. I think relenting might be better. I’m relenting to the reality that we all have wants and needs in this world, even though it might seem we’re unworthy of satisfying them for one reason or another. I think I’ve finally reached a point where I can succumb to temptation, if you will, for lack of a better word.”

  Nicole nodded but remained silent. Sam wondered what she was thinking as the silence grew to an uncomfortable level.

  “Do you think you could ever love this woman you’re seeing?” she suddenly inquired.

  Again, Sam bulked. Why is she asking these questions? He cleared his throat and replied, “I honestly don’t know. It’s too soon to say.”

  After ordering their food, Sam gazed across the table at the woman responsible for his being here in London, aware of a warmth growing inside. What he’d been refusing to acknowledge since first laying eyes on Nicole when she picked him up was now becoming crystal clear. He was falling for this English woman. He didn’t know if it was the way she looked in that stunning dress or how she seemed forward but vulnerable at the same time. It pulled him toward her like a magnet to steel. The feeling was indescribable and frightening at the same time. Frightening because the last thing he needed right now was to fall for a woman who lived an ocean away. Add Maisy to the mix, and you have a full-blown dilemma.

  “What are you thinking about?” Nicole asked.