The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  Susan doesn’t share Maggie’s levity.

  The night table light goes on.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

  Susan is sitting on the bed, her hands taped together in front of her. Maggie doesn’t see me, so I attempt to inch up another step, but my leg must have fallen asleep and I slip. I grab hold of the ladder, but it’s too late. Maggie turns quickly, brandishing her gun.

  “It’s me, Maggie. Hank.”

  Maggie’s rage changes to confusion as her gun is pointed at me. “Hank, what are you doing here?” she demands, starting toward me.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you. C’mon, we don’t need her.”

  My eyes stay on Maggie’s gun. It doesn’t budge.

  “She needs to be taught a lesson, Hank.”

  “I don’t love her, Maggie. I love you. She and I haven’t been together in years.” Touché.

  Maggie gives me a crooked smile. “You’re mine.”

  I nod furiously. “Let’s leave her here, go back to the inn.”

  Maggie shakes her head. “She’s bad, Hank. She was doing John while she was married to you. That’s infidelity. I can’t tolerate that. He did that to me.”

  I shake my leg, lifting my foot up a step.

  “Don’t, Hank. I can handle this alone.” Then she says, “At least you were separated when we made love.”

  Technically that’s true. “I should be upset with her, but I’m not.” I glance over at Susan, her head angled in my direction. I provide a thin smile, a small reassurance, but her grim expression doesn’t change.

  “I’m doing it for us,” Maggie says.

  “Forget her, Maggie. Leave with me now. We’ll move to Manhattan, your apartment. It’s beautiful—”

  She scowls. “You saw my apartment?”

  “No, I—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Hank! You were spying on me.” She inches closer, waves her gun. “I can’t trust you anymore. You’re like John.”

  “That’s not true,” I protest. “I would never cheat on you.”

  The corner of her mouth curls. “Don’t you see, Hank? You invaded my privacy.” Maggie aims her weapon at me. “Get down and leave, or I’ll be forced to use this on you, too.”

  “I can’t, Maggie. My leg fell asleep.”

  Maggie moves closer, stands over me. My left hand is holding on to the ladder, my right on my gun. I drop the gun and leap for Maggie’s leg, grabbing her ankle, and pulling her toward me. I’m hanging flat against the ladder, my foot searching for a rung, Maggie’s leg with me.

  “You bastard!” she screams, kicking wildly with her free leg. “I’m doing this for us,” she roars.

  Maggie kicks me in the face, sending me flying down the ladder, my face smacking the rungs on the way down.

  I gaze up. Maggie is attempting to shut the hatch, but when she realizes the ladder is in the way, she swears and turns back to the room, ranting, “Where the hell are you, bitch?”

  I pick myself up off the floor, holding onto the ladder for support. Catching my breath, I search around for my gun, scoop it up, then steady myself before starting up the ladder, only to hear Maggie screaming. She’s out of control.

  I take a few steps, then wipe the blood that’s dripping off my chin with my jacket sleeve. About halfway up, I hear a sliding sound screeching against the floor above me, and duck. Maggie has pushed Hunter’s fucking king-size bed over the opening. I shove the gun in my holster, continue as far as I can, then push, but the bed won’t budge. My right shoulder heaves upward, but it’s no use.

  I leap off the ladder, take the stairs two at a time, and run outside to the garage. Maggie’s swearing is reverberating outside.

  I find an aluminum ladder hooked to the inside of the garage wall, rip it off, and charge to the side of the house. I pull on the rope for extending the ladder, lean it against the house, and start climbing. It’s not until I pass the first level that I notice Susan on the roof. She must have opened the window and crawled outside on the windowsill, then boosted herself onto the lower part of the roof along the gutters. Her hands are still bound, and I’m wondering how adept she’ll be at climbing to the chimney.

  “Susan,” I call out.

  She stops momentarily but doesn’t turn.

  Maggie pokes her head out the window, follows my eyes, and realizes what is happening. She turns back to me, our eyes locking in on each other. Then with a sardonic smile, she waves her gun.

  “Maggie, don’t!”

  She points her weapon at Susan and releases a shot, hitting the chimney just above my wife’s head. She swears, steps out on the roof, and with one foot attempts to push the ladder away from the house. My weight frustrates her, so she decides to go after Susan.

  Daylight is disappearing from the top of the chimney, but Maggie is resolved on killing Susan at any cost. She gets off another shot, but Susan is now behind the chimney. I’m at the windowsill; Maggie is halfway between Susan and me.

  “Maggie, stop or I’ll shoot,” I threaten, my gun aiming at her hand.

  She swings around and fires wildly, nicking my wrist and knocking the gun out of my hand. With dusk engulfing us, I’m certain my gun is lost somewhere in Hunter’s bushes.

  I turn back to Maggie, but all I see is the extension of her hand. One round goes off, then three more. Finally, the sound of something sliding off the roof.

  I climb down the ladder, get on my knees, and feel around for my gun.

  “Why?”

  I stop. The voice in pain behind me sounds like Maggie’s.

  “I love you, Hank,” she whispers. “You should have believed me.”

  I crawl over to her. “I’m sorry it happened this way, Maggie,” I say without malice.

  I hear movement on the ladder and call out, “Susan, are you okay?”

  “I’m here, Hank,” she says, struggling for breath.

  I turn back and realize it was Susan who had fallen off the roof. I charge for the ladder, knocking Maggie into Hunter’s hibiscus bush. I can’t see the expression on her face, but I feel her hot breath on me, and the cold metal in her hand. We struggle for the gun, but Maggie is flying on adrenaline. No longer is she ranting; all her strength is being used to loosen my grip and finish me off like she did Sheryl. We continue to fight for control until a shot rings out, and for a brief moment, I don’t know which one of us is hit.

  Epilogue

  John Hunter was Eastpoint’s biggest celebrity, though not the kind you’d want as a neighbor. Especially if you had an attractive wife.

  Hunter ruined more lives in this town after his death than when he was alive. Counting the number of funerals I’ve attended these past few months, I realize Eastpoint will never be the same. The last funeral took place over a month ago. Like the others, it was simple, only this time it was held in a small cemetery outside New York City. Not many people attended Maggie Hunter’s funeral, and I was the only one representing Eastpoint.

  I needed to attend, put some closure between us. Maggie and I were lovers, albeit for only one night. At the time, I was certain our relationship would blossom in light of my seemingly doomed marriage. Her death has left a void in me, a reminder of what she represented during that painful period. A safety net. I’m sure the circumstances drew me to Maggie, but I also know I fell in love with her, and she is still very much alive inside me. It was her spirit, not the confused, delusional woman, I allowed into my heart.

  In the end, her mental state unraveled; Maggie thought she was retrieving John Hunter as a partner, her lover, whom she believed would be committed to her this time. Her apartment was evidence that Maggie could not take rejection well, and she kept his past as it was before the breakup. Somehow, in her own sick way, Maggie misplaced me for Hunter. And I was vulnerable.

  John Hunter left many women in his wake. Carol Warner, the patient-turned-stalker, is doing time in a mental facility, not able to shake her unwavering love for him. Carol was a fragile woman in therapy with Hunter,
and he placed her in a defenseless situation; she may never recover.

  The women of Eastpoint, the ones whose paintings are now destroyed, can breathe easier. At least the women who lived can—women like Olivia Patterson, who still lives on Hidden Island with her husband. There was never any reason to release the paintings once Hunter’s killer was dead.

  Jackie Hopkins, who killed Wayne and helped contribute to Peter’s suicide, entered rehab, purged herself of drugs, and is in the process of selling the store. She was never charged in Wayne’s murder. A grand jury investigation resulted in a dismissal due to a self-defense plea. I stood up for her. I saw Wayne aim his gun at her. At least, that’s what I told the jury.

  Sheryl Murphy was the saddest of all Hunter’s victims. Searching for love, Sheryl thought she’d found it in Hunter, only Hunter, as in the past, was reckless. Perhaps if Paddy had demonstrated a stronger commitment to her than to his bar, there would have been little reason for Sheryl to stray.

  Judge Prescott retired from the bench. He owed me and was willing to have someone backdate a search warrant to Maggie’s apartment if I needed him to. I didn’t, thanks to “first in his class” Greco. The judge takes his boat out on the sound occasionally, thinks about his life and what it amounted to over the past few months. His resolve to save his son compromised every oath he ever took, though he was right on all counts. Paddy was innocent of all charges. That’s what I have to deal with, since it was I who pursued him with such vengeance.

  As for the paintings I found in Maggie’s apartment, they too have been destroyed. Perhaps if I had been faster in getting to Hunter’s house that infamous evening, there would have been little reason for Maggie to go after Sheryl or Susan, and the outcome might have been different.

  The town was grateful that I solved the murders, and of course, they postponed the election indefinitely. The pariah I had become in those painful weeks was recast as a hero, and I got smiles and support as though nothing had happened. But something did happen. I stepped down as chief of police, over cries and remorse to no avail.

  I’m back with Suffolk County as a homicide detective. I’d been doing that job ever since John Hunter was killed anyway. I finally realized that the tranquil life of a town sheriff was too dull for me. Charlie took over and became the first black chief of Eastpoint.

  I’m inside Salty’s, sitting at my regular table. These musings have been with me ever since Maggie was killed behind Hunter’s hibiscus bush. I say was killed, not that I killed her. The gun went off…

  “More coffee, Detective?”

  I glance up. “Thanks.”

  “It’s you I should thank, Hank. You saved me. From him.”

  Jackie hasn’t used Wayne’s name since the incident. I touch her hand and offer a wistful smile.

  She smiles faintly, fills my cup, then heads off to another table. Jackie looks great cleaned up. I hadn’t seen her eyes sparkle in a long time. She works for Paddy now; he hired her a few weeks ago. Both have been in a lot of pain. Who knows where the job might lead?

  “Mind if I sit?”

  I glance up. “It’s your bar.”

  Paddy searches my face, then pulls up a chair. “We haven’t said too much to each other since it happened.”

  I nod. “I guess we’ve been trying to sort things out.”

  “I know you were convinced I killed them,” he starts. “As an ex-cop, I would have thought the same thing. Motive, means. All that stuff.”

  I nod. “It looked that way,” I say without malice.

  Paddy forces a smile. “Yeah, it did, didn’t it? I’m sorry about those letters I wrote about Susan and Hunter. I was angry at you for accusing me.” He stops. “I really did think Susan was having an affair with the guy, you know.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “I never realized she was just seeing him as a patient. I guess my warped mind over Sheryl led me astray.” Paddy stops, searches my eyes with regret. “I’m sorry, Hank. You had every right to go after me.”

  I wait a few moments before asking, “Susan told you she was in therapy?”

  He motions to the bar. “Recently. She told me everything. Why Sheryl got involved with Hunter.” His chest heaves. “Sheryl was trying to save our marriage, only Hunter must have charmed her and…I guess some shrinks can do that.”

  “Especially the charismatic ones with strong sex drives,” I add in jest.

  He smiles thinly. “Anyway, for whatever it’s worth, I don’t hold any ill will toward you. And thanks for going easy on my father.”

  Paddy stands, extends his hand. I take it and we shake in friendship. “He was just protecting his son. I would have done the same.”

  Paddy sighs. “I better get back to the bar. Come around one night after you get off from work. We’ll have a drink together.” His hand slips out of mine. As he turns to leave, I say, “I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

  He nods.

  I go back to my sandwich, start playing with the bread.

  “Not hungry?”

  My head jerks up. “Hey.” I begin to rise, but Susan raises a hand. “Don’t get up. I was just passing when I saw your car out front. Thought I’d say hello.”

  “Please, sit with me for a while.”

  Susan hesitates, then slides in a seat across from me.

  “You look great,” I say, meaning it.

  “Thanks. The new job seems to agree with you,” she says, her eyes staying on mine.

  “I guess I’m back in my element. Shootings, stabbings…” I stop. “Sorry.”

  She grimaces. “That’s okay.”

  “That was a hell of a fall,” I say.

  Susan nods slowly. “The doctors tell me I’ll mend in time. Mentally, too. I’m seeing a real shrink.”

  I lower my eyes. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Susan. I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

  She touches my hand lightly. “It’s okay, Hank. I guess I should have told you I was seeing Hunter. I mean, in therapy.”

  I sigh, search her eyes. “Is the pain bad?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Only when I laugh.” She smiles warmly. “I’m trying to laugh, though.”

  “That’s great. I mean about the laughing.”

  She starts to laugh, grimaces, but continues. “Remember when we used to laugh, Hank?”

  Susan is still wearing her wedding band. I smile to myself. “Yeah. We did that a lot, didn’t we?”

  “What happened to us?” she asks, holding my hand tightly.

  I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know.”

  Then she asks, “Are you over her yet?”

  I regard her remark and take a few moments before answering. “It was never like that. I never wanted to hurt you,” I add quickly.

  She wipes her eyes. “I hadn’t been much of a wife the past few years,” she says and pauses. Then she continues and tells me that she is no longer on antidepressants.

  “That’s great.” I smile.

  She smiles back. “Therapy has put me in a better place.”

  “I can see that. I’m really happy for you, Susan.”

  She asks if I’m still staying at the Inn.

  I shake my head. “It was too expensive on a week-to-week. I found a small apartment in Wading River. It’s a quiet place, just what I need right now.”

  “Maybe I could see it sometime,” she says.

  My expression changes to confusion. “My apartment?”

  “It sounds nice. Quiet and all.”

  “Sure, but I don’t have much furniture.”

  “What about a bed, Hank? You must have a bed.” Susan gives me that old Susan look and smiles radiantly.

  “Yeah, but it’s not as good as the one we had.”

  “Maybe we could test it sometime,” she teases.

  “I’d like that,” I say warmly.

  “What time do you get off work?”

  I check my watch. “Hell, I’m off right now.”

  “This minute?”

  I
nod and ask her if she needs permission from her doctor to see the apartment.

  “Which one? My shrink or orthopedic?”

  I smile. “Both.”

  “They’d tell me that time heals all pain. I’m ready to heal if you are.”

  “I’ve missed you, Susan. I want to heal, too.”

  Before You Go…

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  Page Ahead for an Excerpt From:

  MURDER ON THE ROCKS

  Murder on the Rocks

  The Hank Reed Mystery Series, Book 2

  I followed the path, passing the Chinese Tea House that was part of the Marble House property on my right, walking through a narrow stone tunnel and exiting the other side—but still no sign of Patrice.

  It wasn’t until I reached Sheep Point that I glimpsed her ahead. Obviously, she hadn’t found anything, or anyone, because she was steadily making her way toward the second tunnel at Gull Rock.

  Beyond the tunnel, the conditions were rough, with chain-link fences and thick, unpruned hedges ensuring that walkers wouldn’t stray onto private property. I called out, but Patrice—too busy moving to hear me—disappeared inside the tunnel. I picked up my pace, wishing now that I’d given up Boston cream donuts. I entered the tunnel and spotted her exiting the other end. She was picking her way over the stones.

  When I reached the end of the tunnel, I noticed that the trail broke up alongside chain link fences with padlocks on the gates that guarded the remaining private mansions. ‘Private Property–'No Trespassing’ and ‘No Thru Way’ signs glared from the edges of the properties, large enough for the most visually-challenged to see without trouble.