Star Spangled Killer

by Summer Prescott

  “I know who broke into your house,” he said finally, his tone ominous.

  Fiona lived next door to the mortician, renting out Echo’s cozy little pre-wedding cottage, and the two carpooled every day. For weeks now, Fiona’d been stalked by someone she’d never quite been able to catch a glimpse of. One night last week, after they’d gotten home, Fiona had let out a scream that stopped Tim’s heart. He’d raced into her house where he found a very strange scene indeed. On Fiona’s kitchen table was a circular arrangement of what looked like transparent leaves, small animal bones, and pieces of leather. In the middle of the grisly circle stood one of Fiona’s butcher knives, splitting the wood of the table.

  At her boss’s words, Fiona’s eyes grew large. “What do you mean?” her voice was low and scared, and she glanced at the door handle of the car. “How could you possible know that?” she mumbled.

  Surely she couldn’t be that bad a judge of character. Yes, her boss was an odd duck, but there was no way he was stalking her. She would’ve been able to tell, she noticed everything about him. Though he was pale and doughy, with thinning hair and abominable glasses, she felt somehow oddly drawn to him. She would’ve known if he was her stalker.

  “My past has come back to haunt me,” the mortician muttered.

  Fiona blinked at him for a moment before finding her voice. “What’s… what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Suddenly her mouth went dry, and when she swallowed, her throat made an unbearably loud click.

  Tim sighed and shook his head. Fiona waited, not realizing that she was holding her breath, for him to speak. When he finally did, he still made no sense.

  “I think that someone is trying to scare you, but it’s not about you, it’s about me,” he made a face, then stopped talking.

  “You realize that that makes no sense, right?” she raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

  “It does,” he insisted. “But I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  “Why?” Fiona’s heart beat faster.

  “Because you’re already in enough danger,” he blurted, then clamped his mouth shut.

  “Danger? Timothy Eckels, you had better tell me right now just exactly what is going on!” the young woman demanded, adrenaline shooting through her.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t,” was all he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  Timothy Eckels had the newspapers for every neighboring town within a fifty-mile radius spread out on his dining room table. He used the internet frequently for research, but he’d found that when he was looking for small details and hidden meanings, sometimes the best sources for obscure news were often local newspapers and TV stations. He’d turned to the Death Notices section of all of them, and was meticulously poring over the names and circumstances of death, occasionally circling items of interest that looked promising.

  Tim’s head snapped up, and he stared at the front door when his doorbell rang. No one ever just dropped by his house. Ever. He’d posted a No Soliciting sign prominently by the front door of his tidy little home, and he had no friends nor family. Eyes darting to and fro, he hurriedly stacked the newspapers together in a pile, took them to a hidden panel in the floor of his pantry, and dumped them inside, securing the panel again. Catching his breath and shoving his heavy glasses back up his nose, he was nearly to the door when whoever was on the other side of it started knocking frantically. That, at least, was reassuring. Those who meant to do harm generally didn’t pound on doors as though their lives depended upon gaining entry.

  Glancing out the peephole, he saw his assistant, Fiona, standing on his doorstep, arms folded across her midsection, looking worried, which was odd. Fiona was as tough as nails, and Tim found it disconcerting to see her looking vulnerable. He sighed softly, and reached for the doorknob, hoping that she didn’t need comforting of any sort. He’d never been a nurturer, and while he had a begrudging respect for his spunky young assistant, he would have no idea how to be supportive or react to any expressions of emotion from her, good or bad.

  He opened the door and stared at his assistant with mild curiosity, not seeing a need for the formality of greeting her.

  “I know I’m bothering you,” she blurted. “But I have to talk to you or I’ll lose my mind. Can I come in?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he answered mildly.

  Fiona knew her reclusive boss well enough that she wasn’t offended. She knew he was merely being totally honest.

  “I know, but this is important,” she persisted, glancing back toward her house. “I don’t feel safe at my place right now, and I need to talk to you. Please?” she implored, managing not to sound pathetic.

  Tim stared at her again, realized she wouldn’t readily take no for an answer, and decided to let her into his private space, a privilege which very few had ever shared.

  “Fine,” he sighed, his brow furrowed.

  On her way in, Fiona placed a hand lightly on his arm. “Look, I know it’s a big deal for you to let someone into your house, and I appreciate it, okay? Believe me, I wouldn’t even have asked if it wasn’t so important.”

  “I have pie,” he said. For him, it was the ultimate attempt at being a gracious host.

  “I love pie,” she smiled faintly.

  Tim’s home was eerily similar to his offices at the mortuary and in his underground realm at the county morgue—uncluttered and clinically sterile. The paint colors and furnishings were neutral and practical, and the only decorative object he had was a small tree on the mantel which looked as though it had been constructed of leather.

  “You can sit in the dining room,” he pointed to a round table which had four chairs, three of which looked like they’d never been used.

  Fiona sat in one to the right of what was clearly Tim’s favorite chair, judging by the upholstery’s permanent impression. The introverted mortician looked very much out of his element carrying two slabs of thick peach pie, topped with whipped cream, its thick juices oozing onto delicate china plates.

  “My grandma made the best pies,” he announced, setting Fiona’s in front of her. His piece was placed across the table, at the seat furthest from her.

  “My grandma drove a truck,” she replied, a tad wistfully, digging what looked like an actual silver fork into her pie, and sliding it into her mouth, relishing the explosion of flavor. “Oh my gosh,” she exclaimed, putting her hand up in front of her mouth so she could talk and chew at the same time. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Your grandma was a genius.”

  “No, she had a high IQ, but she didn’t fall into the genius category. She just put lots of butter in the crust,” he commented, taking his first bite.

  He chewed slowly and swallowed, watching Fiona dive into the dessert as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks. “So why are you here?” he asked, forking up another bite.

  “Well geez, don’t mince words, let me know how you really feel,” Fiona muttered, her mouth full.

  “I never mince words, as you know. Why are you here?”

  “I heard some strange sounds, which prompted me to get away from the house, and since you seem to know who’s stalking me, I thought I’d just come over and bug you until you tell me what I’m dealing with.”

  Tim’s eyes went wide and the color drained from his face. “You can’t be here,” he whispered, his glance darting to the window. “It’s more dangerous for you.”

  Fiona’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “What?” she inclined her head and stared him down. “Timothy Eckels, are you trying to tell me that you’re the stalker?” she put her fork down too carefully, the move looking staged.

  Astonished, he stared at her, blinking. “Don’t be ridiculous. We work together.”

  “Then you have to tell me what you’re talking about,” Fiona leaned over the table, her gaze locked on his.

  “No. I can’t. I won’t. You have to leave right now. It’s not safe for you to be here and it may not be safe for me either,” he
insisted, clearly agitated and heading for the front door. “I’ll bring the rest of the pie to work tomorrow, since you didn’t finish,” he promised, shooing her out the door.

  Fiona looked toward her house and screamed, seeing smoke billowing out of the garage windows. “Tim!!” she beat on his door with both fists. “Tim, call the fire department!! The house is on fire!!”

  ***

  Timothy Eckels was not a man who liked to get involved. He just wanted to live his life, do his job, and make certain that every moment of every day was as predictable as possible. He didn’t like surprises, he didn’t like drama, and he didn’t like having to step inside the luxurious interior of Chas Beckett’s office building, but he had no choice. While he had little contact with law enforcement as a private citizen, he’d dealt with police on nearly a daily basis in the context of his job, for quite some time. There were good cops and bad cops and lots of in-between cops, but Chas had been the only detective he’d ever encountered who actually listened to his theories surrounding time, cause, and method of death, and took Tim seriously when he had a feeling that something wasn’t right. Tim hoped desperately that Beckett the PI was the same measured, rational man that he’d been when he’d been Calgon’s lead homicide detective.

  “Mr. Beckett will see you now,” Holly Meadows announced, leading the way down the hall toward Chas’s office. “Can I get you some coffee, tea, maybe water?” she offered, with a gracious smile.

  “Uh, no. Caffeine makes me itch,” Tim muttered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Holly was at a loss for words, but recovered quickly. “Well, let me know if there’s anything that I can do for you.”

  “I’m here to see Beckett,” Tim frowned.

  “Well, here we are,” Holly opened the door, announced Tim’s arrival, and disappeared quickly, leaving Tim standing in the doorway.

  “Eckels, good to see you,” Chas didn’t offer his hand, knowing the mortician’s aversions, but indicated that he should sit. “What brings you in?”

  “Murder.”

  Chas inclined his head, thinking that surely he hadn’t heard the mild-mannered mortician correctly.

  “Excuse me… murder? Is that what you said?”

  “Yes. Murder,” Tim nodded once.

  “Then shouldn’t you be talking to the police, rather than me?”

  “Arthur Solinsky is an incompetent fool. If I thought he’d respond appropriately, I would have gone to him, but he doesn’t like me, so there’s no reason for him to believe me.”

  “I’d venture to guess there are very few people that Solinsky does like,” Chas commented, intrigued. “Eckels, you haven’t killed someone, have you?” he asked somberly.

  “No. I have not, but I believe that my assistant Fiona is being stalked by someone who has killed numerous people.”

  “Who’s the stalker?” the PI grabbed a pad of paper.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Chas tapped a pen on his desk blotter, pursing his lips. “Then why are you here, Tim?”

  “Did you investigate when someone broke into Fiona’s house a few days ago?”

  “No. I wanted to help, but Solinsky marked his territory and refused to share information with me. I thought it looked like some sort of ritualistic expression with the circles and leaves and bones. Or something religious maybe,” Chas shrugged. “You think the person who did that is a murderer?”

  “Did you know that there was a fire last night? At the house Fiona’s renting? The one next to mine?” Tim shuddered, distress altering his usually punctilious manner of speaking.

  “No, I’m sorry, I hadn’t heard that.”

  “I overheard the fire chief when he was walking around over there. He said it was arson.”

  “Was there much damage? I wonder if Echo knows.”

  “It stayed in the garage, so that has to be replaced, but the rest of the house is fine. Except for smelling like smoke.”

  “The timing between the two events is a little too small to be considered coincidental. So you believe Fiona may be in danger, but you refuse to tell me who the potential killer may be. What are you hoping to gain by coming in today?” Chas preferred to get right to the bottom line with every potential client, a trait which Tim admired.

  “I want you to find the killer and bring them to justice. They’ve struck before and they’ll strike again. I may have some leads for you,” the mortician reached into his black briefcase and brought out a stack of newspapers.

  “You still read these things?” Chas asked, accepting the bundle.

  “Yes, and so should you.”

  “You realize that if you suspect that there is a killer on the loose, you are supposed to report as many details as you can to the police, right?”

  “I have no proof. You can get proof. Here’s a number you should call,” Tim handed him a slip of paper with a name and phone number on it, and stood to go.

  “What’s in this for you, Eckels?”

  “Peace,” he replied quietly, almost in a whisper. “I just want peace.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Missy was more than a little pleased with the morning’s experiment. She was calling her latest patriotic-themed cupcakes “Old Glories,” and loved how festive they looked. She had layered strawberry cake, lemon cake, and cotton candy cake batters in her cupcake papers to form red, white and blue stripes. She then layered red, white and blue buttercream frosting in her frosting bag, and had dotted the top of each brightly-colored cupcake with red, white and blue flowers, finishing them off with edible glitter, and fireworks made from tiny strips of red licorice. Not only were the cupcakes beautiful, but the unique combination of flavors was spectacular. She’d made a triple batch after having tasted the test batch, and would spend the rest of the morning getting them ready unless Echo came by to help.

  Unfortunately, after receiving the news that her garage had been set on fire by an arsonist, Echo was dealing with her insurance company, so she couldn’t assist with the frosting. Spencer, Missy’s other go-to-froster, was apparently working on something special for Chas and couldn’t get away. So she left the cupcakes in the racks, and the frosting in the bowls and bags, frosting as quickly as she could in between customers. School had just been let out for the summer, so there were plenty of young families coming in to buy cupcakes for family gatherings, graduations, and early summer parties. To say that Missy was swamped would be a vast understatement. She had just come back out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel after hearing the front door chime, when she saw a rather dour-looking bald, bespectacled gentleman in a wild Hawaiian-print shirt and khaki cargo shorts.

  “Hi, how can I help you?” she asked, with her signature smile.

  “I’m Jerome Freneman from Public Health and Safety,” he flashed his credentials at her, not returning her smile. “I’m here to do an inspection of your business.”

  Missy frowned. “Wait, I’m confused. Those inspections are scheduled months in advance, and I just had one a few weeks ago, there must be some mistake.”

  The inspector was clearly in no mood for discussion. “Look lady, you’re on my list for inspections today. I don’t make the rules, I just do inspections,” he sighed.

  “Well, I always comply with the rules, but I don’t think this is right. There’s no way that I should be scheduled for another inspection so soon. I’d like to speak with your supervisor, please,” the cute, sweet blonde began a slow simmer, hands on hips, foot tapping.

  “Seriously?” the inspector made a face.

  “You’d better believe it,” Missy rose to her full height, which was still petite, and stared the man down.

  “Fine. I gotta go back to my car to make a phone call,” Jerome Freneman turned to go.

  “No, you don’t. I have his number and a telephone that you can use, right here behind the counter.”

  Jerome made the call. Roughly fifteen minutes later, his boss, Chuck Gambel, strolled in with a smile.

>   “Morning, Ms. Beckett,” he greeted Missy with a warm handshake. “How are you today?”

  Missy’s accent thickened when she was agitated, and right about now, she sounded like she’d just walked straight off the set of Gone With the Wind.

  “Hey, Chuck. My mornin’ was goin’ just fine until Mr. Freneman got here and started swearing up and down that he’s gonna do an inspection, when you and I both know that I just had one a few weeks ago.”

  “You sure did,” Chuck nodded. “Passed with flying colors.”

  “So then why is this man insisting that he’s gotta do an inspection today?” she demanded.

  Chuck turned to his subordinate, with the same kind smile that he’d given Missy. “Hey Jerry, why don’t you go outside to check and see how many visits we’ve done in the past couple of months,” he dismissed the man.

  Jerome gave him a look and headed for the door, slamming it a bit harder than necessary on the way out. Chuck wasted no time getting to the point.

  “I might talk to your husband if I were you,” he confided. “There’s rumors going around that the vice mayor died of food poisoning, and one of the last things that he ate was one of your cupcakes. The homeless shelter that he visited on some kinda promo tour was serving them. He ate a ton of food that day, and every business that supplied food anywhere along the way is being inspected, to try to narrow down where he got food poisoning,” he explained.

  “But then why didn’t y’all just call me and let me know?”

  “The call came in this morning, when I was in a meeting. The detective who ordered it asked specifically for Jerry, so he came out before I even knew what was happening. I apologize about the way that this was handled.”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault,” Missy sighed. “So, this really has to happen today? I’m swamped right now.” Her words were underscored by a trio of teenage girls who came in for cupcakes and coffee.

  “Yeah, it’s supposed to be a sneak attack. Between you, me and the fence post, I think they must have some idea of what they’re looking for, and they’ll be trying to find it anywhere they can,” he gave her a pointed look.