White Chocolate Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 31 (Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries)

by Summer Prescott

  Chas called in the vandalism, and headed back to the living room to discover that the apartment’s occupant had just returned. Fiona was hopping mad.

  “What are you doing here and what the heck happened to my apartment?” she growled through her teeth, her eyes fiery.

  “I came here to talk to you, and found that your apartment had been broken into. My guys will be here shortly to try and collect some forensic evidence that will hopefully help us figure out who did this,” Chas assured her.

  “Can we go outside and talk?” he asked, noting that there was no longer any intact surfaces available upon which to sit.

  Fiona sighed with exasperation and clenched her teeth, looking as though she had plenty to say, but was refraining for the sake of propriety. “Fine,” she muttered, stomping toward the door, her combat boots thudding on the wrinkled carpet.

  “What time did you leave your residence this morning?” Chas asked, pulling his notebook from the inside pocket of his sport coat.

  Fiona stared at him sullenly, her arms crossed. “I left around ten o’clock last night.”

  “Ten o’clock?” She nodded curtly.

  “And you didn’t return until now…nearly twelve hours later?” he clarified. Another nod, this time with narrowed eyes.

  “Where were you during that time?”

  “At work,” was the terse reply.

  “And where would that be?”

  “Shoreside Nursing Home.”

  The detective hadn’t been expecting that, but was careful not to let his surprise show.

  “Bet that one threw you off,” Fiona smirked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh come on…that was the last place that you were thinking,” she challenged, rolling her eyes.

  “I’ve learned not to depend upon pre-conceived notions about people,” he replied coolly, refusing to take the bait. “Is there anyone who might be upset with you? Someone who might be trying to get back at you for some reason?”

  “I’m sure the list is long. I don’t have any patience for polite conversation, and I’m not exactly a delicate social butterfly,” Fiona replied dryly.

  Chas sighed inwardly, wondering if she was always this difficult, or if he’d just caught her on a bad day. “Anyone in particular?”

  “I’m sure Steve isn’t terribly fond of me at the moment, and one of the residents at the home is mad because I wouldn’t give him an extra pudding cup, but aside from that, no. Not that I know of.” Fiona sighed, crossed her arms and gazed up at the sky, clearly tired, bored, and more than a bit cranky.

  “Fine. I’m sure we’ll know more once the forensics team does their work. Let’s switch gears for now. I’d like you to tell me about the day that your sister died.”

  Her eyes narrowed again. “Why? We’ve been over that already, what’s the point? She had a heart attack, she died, end of story.”

  “I just have a few follow-up questions before I close out her file. Once we get through those, I’ll be on my way,” Chas assured the prickly twenty-something.

  “How long are the cops going to be poking around in my place? I’ve got things to do, you know. Sleep for one thing. Plus I’ve gotta get furniture and do all that clean-up…” she sighed again, running a hand through her spiky black hair.

  “Probably a few hours.”

  “Great,” she grimaced. “Fine, ask your questions so I can get out of here and get on with my life,” she grumbled, leaning back against the bland-colored stucco beside her apartment door.

  “Did you have lunch with your sister the day that she died?”

  “No, I made lunch for me, her and Paulie, but I didn’t eat there. I had an early shift that day, so I took my sandwich with me.”

  “So you had sandwiches…what did you put in them?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Just routine.”

  Another heavy sigh. “Fine. It was tuna on rye with Spring Mix, onion and tomato. Happy?”

  “Sounds delicious,” Chas replied dryly, his patience wearing thin. “Were your brother and sister eating before you left?”

  “I don’t know,” she blurted. “I was getting ready for work, I wasn’t exactly watching their every move, ya know?”

  “I understand,” the detective nodded, snapping his notebook shut and tucking it back inside his sport coat. “Thank you for your time. We’ll let you know what we find out on the home invasion.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said sourly.

  Chapter 11

  Chas Beckett assumed that he found his culprit when he arrived at his next stop, Paul McCamish’s modest home, and saw Loud Steve sitting in his truck across the street. The detective got of his non-descript beige police sedan and moved toward the truck. Seeing the Chas’s face, Steve started the engine and pulled away from the curb, driving past and giving a jaunty wave. Chas made note of the time, and made his way to Paul’s front door.

  Paul’s wife answered and he introduced himself, asking to speak with her husband. She informed him that Paul was at work, but would be home for lunch in a few minutes.

  “Does he always come home for lunch?” Chas asked casually.

  “Usually,” she nodded. “Unless he has a deadline coming up, or is meeting with a client or something.”

  “And what does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a contractor. And he’s really good, if you’re looking to build or renovate,” she added with a proud smile.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” the detective replied pleasantly. “Your yard is beautiful…are you a gardener?”

  “Thank you. Yes, it’s my hobby. I love all of the color and pretty growing things.”

  “I bet,” Chas nodded. “Have you been out in the yard today?”

  “No,” her face clouded briefly. “I wanted to cut some flowers for a centerpiece, but that rude man from the funeral was sitting out here in his truck and it freaked me out a little.”

  “How long was he out there?”

  “I don’t know, I first noticed him about half an hour ago.”

  Chas nodded, and they both turned when Paul’s car turned into the driveway.

  “Well, there he is. Would you like to come in and have some iced tea and cookies while you talk with him?” she offered.

  “No, thank you. This should be pretty quick, I’m just wrapping up his sister’s file. A formality really,” the detective reassured her.

  “Alright, well, if you change your mind, you boys just come on in,” she smiled again, then turned and disappeared into the house.

  “Detective? Is everything okay?” Paul McCamish came jogging up the walk with a worried look on his face.

  “Yes, everything is fine. I just came to ask you a few questions about the day that your sister died. I’m closing out her file and just need to dot my i’s and cross my t’s.”

  “Sure, do you want to come inside? My wife makes pretty amazing chocolate chip cookies.”

  “No, this won’t take but a minute,”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Did you make lunch for your sister on the day that she died?”

  “No, I just stopped by. Fi had texted me that she was going to make sandwiches before she went to work, and that I should come over. I felt guilty about not having seen either of them for a few weeks, so I agreed. She had everything ready by the time I got there, and left pretty much right away.”

  “So your sister died while you and she were eating? Are you sure she didn’t just choke on her sandwich?”

  “No, she didn’t eat more than a couple of bites, and she vomited what little that she had gotten down. I have a weak stomach, so when I heard those sounds coming from the bathroom, I couldn’t even take a bite. Then, after she died, well that obviously made me completely forget about eating,” Paul commented sadly.

  “Threw the sandwich away, huh?” Chas nodded sympathetically.

  “Yeah, but don’t tell Fi, she’d probably be offended,” he made a half-hearted joke
.

  “Speaking of Fiona…” the detective began.

  Paul’s head snapped up and his eyes went wide. “What? Is she okay?”

  Chas held up his hands to calm the worried brother. “She’s fine. Her place was broken into this morning, though. Any idea who might be upset with her? There was a lot of destruction.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know much about Fi’s personal life, but she doesn’t have any enemies that I know of. Maybe it was just a random thing?”

  The detective looked skeptical. “It’s possible, but if you were going to commit a robbery, would you pick that building?”

  “Ah, good point. Probably not. Sorry, wish I could’ve been more helpful.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Chas shook Paul’s hand and returned to his car.

  Before pulling away from the curb, he texted Spencer, setting up a time to meet the Marine for lunch.

  Chapter 12

  “I hate to ask, but I need a favor,” Chas explained, sitting across from Spencer and chain-eating chips and salsa at an out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant.

  “No problem. What’s up?” the Marine leaned forward, picking up his iced tea and taking a sip.

  “I’ve spent my morning doing some further investigation into the death of Paulette McCamish, and I have a hunch that I need to follow up on.”

  Spencer nodded. “I thought there was more to that story too. How can I help?”

  The detective paused. “I wouldn’t normally wish something like this on you, but it’s a necessary evil…”

  “You certainly have my attention.”

  “I need you to babysit.”

  “Come again, sir?”

  “Loud Steve. As obnoxious as he is, I don’t believe that he’s a suspect, but I want you to make him think that I do.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because we have to keep him busy and out of my way. If he’s left to his own devices, he may accidentally stumble upon the truth, and spook the suspect into either fleeing, or lashing out, making Steve the next victim,” Chas sighed.

  “So what do you want me to do, exactly?” Spencer asked, thinking that any assignment involving Loud Steve would be distasteful at best.

  “Take him into your “confidence.” Make him think that I’m looking at him as a suspect, so that he’ll have to work to clear his name, then provide him with “clues.”

  “You want me to send him on a wild goose chase to get him out of your hair,” the Marine grinned, amused.

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Do I have to be with him 24/7?” he asked, with a healthy share of trepidation.

  Chas looked pained. “If you’re not directly with him, you’ll need to have him in sight at least. Don’t let him near Fiona McCamish. I think he trashed her place this morning. I’ll find out for sure when the lab guys get back, because if he was in the military like he says he was, his fingerprints will be on file, and he doesn’t strike me as the type who would think about little details like wearing gloves if he didn’t want to be caught.”

  “Is he going to jail?”

  “Maybe,” the detective shrugged, coming to the bottom of the chip basket. “We’ll certainly let him think that he is, for as long as it suits our purpose.”

  “I’m glad we’re on the same side, sir,” Spencer chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Me too, Spence.”

  **

  Spencer Bengal approached the front door to Loud Steve’s house and could smell stale cigarette smoke and old beer seeping through the screen door. He knocked on the door, and could hear a television or radio playing inside, but there was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time, and rang the doorbell, just for good measure.

  “I’m comin!” he heard Steve growl from inside. Great, he was already in a bad mood.

  He flung the door open and snarled, “What?”

  “Hey, man,” Spencer raised a hand in greeting. “Thought you might want a beer.”

  Steve blinked at him, trying to remember who he was.

  “I’m Spencer…Echo’s friend,” he helped him out.

  “What do you want? Is Echo hurt?”

  “No, she’s fine. I told you, I thought you might want to have a beer. I know it’s been a rough week for you.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so,” Steve shook his head and started to shut the door.

  Spencer put his hand out, stopping the door. “Look, man,” he leaned in and whispered, looking furtively around as though someone might be following him. “I got some info that you’re going to want to hear. We need to go somewhere private to talk,” the Marine said urgently.

  “About what?” Steve looked confused and uncertain. Spencer knew he had him when he poked his head outside, as though scanning the area around his yard with beady, glittering eyes.

  “Your ex,” he opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows to emphasize his point.

  Steve was intrigued and entirely on board. “Whaddya got?” he demanded.

  “Not here,” Spencer whispered. “Let’s go.”

  Steve hitched up his cargo shorts, pushed his backwards ball cap further up on his mostly bald head, slipped his feet into greyish rubber crocs that were once white, and closed the door behind him, following Spencer to the car. On the short walk to the passenger side, he looked in every direction at least five times, turned his hat around so that the bill was now in the front, and pulled it down low over his eyes. Spencer climbed into the driver’s seat, working desperately to suppress a smile.

  “Where we goin?” Steve asked, twisting, turning, and flipping down his visor so that he could see behind himself.

  “I think it’s best if we get out of the area so that we can talk freely,” Spencer replied grimly.

  “Right, I gotcha,” he nodded vigorously, turning down the radio for some reason.

  They rode in silence, with Steve checking the visor mirror periodically.

  “Is that car following us?” he blurted suddenly.

  “Which one?” Spencer acted concerned, glancing in the rearview.

  “Green sedan, older model, two cars back,” Steve stared into his visor mirror with laser focus.

  In a performance that would have convinced a film critic, the Marine raised his gaze to the rearview mirror as though seriously assessing the situation.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Could be. Keep an eye on them. We may need to perform evasive maneuvers.”

  “He just got one car closer.”

  Steve had begun to sweat and gripped his armrest, when Spencer was suddenly seized with inspiration. What better way to kill some time than to exit and drive around unfamiliar areas, outrunning someone who wasn’t even chasing them? Quickly changing lanes, the Marine took the next exit.

  “Watch him,” he commanded, whipping his passenger into a frenzy. “Did he exit?”

  “I can’t tell yet, you switched lanes so fast that I lost sight of him,” the poor deluded man craned his neck in a manner that looked painful, trying to get a bead on their “pursuer.”

  “Did we lose him?” Spencer asked urgently, while they were still on the exit ramp.

  “No!” Steve bellowed, breathing hard. “He just got on the off ramp!”

  Spencer smiled inwardly. Figure the odds. He watched the rearview to see which turn signal the green car used, and made the same choice, to perpetuate the “chase.”

  “We didn’t shake him,” Loud Steve blurted.

  “This guy is good. Don’t turn around, he’ll know that we’re on to him,” the Marine ordered, enjoying it tremendously when his passenger snapped his head back around to the front, sitting motionless for a moment.

  He continued to anticipate the green car’s path for another ten minutes or so before getting bored of the game, and, not wanting to push Steve toward a heart attack, he figured that it was time to “lose” their tail. After scanning the immediate area for local law enforcement, he made a perfectly safe quick turn onto a
side street and repeated the maneuver a handful of times before heading back to the freeway.

  “Is he gone?” he asked, glancing in the rearview.

  “Looks that way…finally,” Steve breathed a sigh of relief. “Good job, man.”

  “Thanks,” Spencer let out a big breath, appearing relieved.

  He almost felt guilty, manipulating this poor man so skillfully, but decided fair was fair – he had to sit in a confined space with the scared and sweaty dude.

  Chapter 13

  Fiona McCamish strode into the plush carpeted, velvet-draped funeral home, looking more than a bit out of place in ripped jeans and a loose fitting black t-shirt, sporting heavy metal chains around her neck and a spiked bracelet on her bony wrist. The young woman’s skin was more pale and waxen than many of the “guests” who had lain atop Tim’s slab, and her eyes were huge and dark.

  She wandered aimlessly through the hushed interior of the death palace, running her fingers over gleaming wood surfaces, scuffing her booted feet over the thick, richly toned carpet, until she finally drifted to a stop in front of the office, where Timothy Eckels sat, totaling up invoices for the month.

  Fiona stood in the doorway, staring at the mortician, and he looked up, returning her gaze with a profound lack of surprise or curiosity.

  “Can I sit?” she asked tonelessly.

  Tim replied by merely pointing to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. She sat, and they continued to stare blandly at one another.

  “I took it,” she said, without shame or regret, thinking that the quiet mortician would be confused or curious. He was neither.

  “I know,” was his colorless reply.

  “How do you know?” she frowned.

  Fiona had been stealing things for survival for years, and no one ever knew or suspected her. She always made sure that her crimes didn’t deprive anyone else – she wasn’t evil, she was just needy. The young woman had gone to great lengths to ensure that she hadn’t been seen when she slipped the ring from her sister’s finger. She’d even made certain to look specifically at Tim to verify that his attention had been elsewhere. How could he possibly know?