by A. C. Mason
Wings
The Mistletoe Murders
C. Mason
A Wings ePress, Inc.
Mystery Novel
Wings ePress, Inc.
Edited by: Christie Kraemer
Copy Edited by: Jeanne Smith
Executive Editor: Jeanne Smith
Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald
All rights reserved
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Wings ePress Books
www.books-by-wings-epress.com
Copyright © 2016 by: A. C. Mason
ISBN 978-1-61309-274-3
A Smashwords Edition
September 2016
Wings ePress Inc.
3000 N. Rock Road
Newton, KS 67114
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
DEDICATION
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
REVIEWS
Prologue
Wednesday, December 11
Oak Pointe, Louisiana
The killer hummed the melody of a popular children’s Christmas song as he placed the sprig of mistletoe on the woman’s body. A parasite for a parasite. Only this one’s helping the parasites. Same difference. Laughing softly, he leaned closer and whispered, “You didn’t watch out and you cried after I warned you not to.”
He chided himself for the frivolity of his words. This was serious business. His gaze moved down her body. He shook his head in disgust. Maybe she wears clothes that cover her butt, but she’s no different from the others. They can’t be saved…none of them. Not even the misguided ones like her who tried to aid them.
Recalling the fear in her eyes and the look of terror on her face, exhilaration rose inside him. She knew she would die. A thrill came over him as he remembered her panic when he held her at gunpoint in his studio. He definitely had to take a photograph of this one.
You always remember the first kill more than the others, so they say. But she was his fourth. He would remember this one as well as the next. Like her, the following kill would be one of the ringleaders trying to save those dirty women.
He chuckled softly. In reality, number five would be number seven. The first two were inconsequential, but necessary to proceed with his plan for Oak Pointe.
Rustling in the bushes nearby drew his attention away from the body. His heart thumped. He exhaled in relief, his warm breath creating a puff of fog in the cold air. Only the wind shifting the carpet of dry leaves.
Staying too long admiring his handiwork wasn’t a good idea. He’d lost track of time. Looking at the sky, he searched for any sign of dawn. Still early yet. The sun wouldn’t be up for at least another hour.
Even in this cold, serious joggers would be out as soon as first light. Time to go home before someone caught him.
Wind off the bayou tugged at him. A whiff of wood smoke floated toward him. People around here used their fireplaces as soon as the temperature reached forty degrees.
He pulled his fleece jacket closer, adjusted the hood to cloak his face, and walked through the trees, planning his next kill.
One
Two hours later
A gust of cold air hit homicide detective Caleb Bourque in the face when he stepped out of his unmarked department car. He pulled up the collar of his jacket, hoping the action would ward off some of the chill. Not much help.
Damn good thing I don’t live in Minnesota. Winters up there lasted a lot longer than summers. In South Louisiana, cold snaps like this would only last a few days. The temperature on Christmas Day sometimes went up to eighty degrees or higher. The thought of Christmas reminded him the holiday was less than two weeks away.
Standing out in the open at a crime scene in winter—definitely not his idea of being in the great outdoors. On top of the cold, an odor from a fertilizer plant located northwest of the city hung in the air. Whenever a cold front blew through, residents were subjected to this stinky smell. At least today, the wood smoke coming from the fireplaces in homes on the outskirts of the park muted the smell.
Unfortunately, the weather forecasters predicted more of the same for the next three or four days. Summer couldn’t come soon enough for Caleb. He envisioned speeding down the bayou in his boat with his dog Bud and a couple of friends on their way to the camp to do some fishing and maybe eat boiled hot and spicy crawfish.
Not only were those pleasurable activities at least three or four months away, today marked the second anniversary of his divorce from Laurie, a painful reminder of her betrayal.
The event had weighed heavily on his mind since the first of December. After two years, he should have been able to move on with his life and not ruin the whole Christmas season in a funk over an unfaithful wife.
He quickly dismissed those thoughts. Back to reality. As head of Homicide, he needed to be on top of all aspects of this case. Time to concentrate on the scene.
Although the city had grown considerably over the last decade, three murders since the first of the month were out of the ordinary for of a town of forty-five thousand people, a disturbing trend. Until this month there had only been one homicide, a robbery gone bad.
Caleb showed his badge to a uniformed officer and ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. Near the body, a crime scene technician snapped photos. Detective Rick Marino stood by directing the photographer.
Marino waved a latex-clad hand at Caleb. He looked as though a strong wind would have blown him away. He was at least six foot four and much too thin for his height.
For reasons unknown, Caleb found the man irritating. Marino simply rubbed him the wrong way. He tried to keep his dislike for the man in check, but he got the impression from officers of other divisions that they were aware of his feelings. Of course, his being chosen as head of homicide over Marino probably made the feelings mutual.
“What do we have here?” Caleb asked, snapping on a pair of gloves.
“It appears we have the third victim of Mistletoe Man.” Marino pointed to a sprig of the holiday-linked evergreen lying on the woman’s chest. He clicked off several photos of the victim with his cell phone.
Caleb did the same. “The press always has to give cutesy handles to serial killers,” he grumbled. “…this is what we seem to have on our hands. Do we know her identity?”
“Not yet. I’m not sure she’s in the same profession as the other two, unless she’s a high-priced call girl. No skimpy clothes on this one. No tattoos, visible at least. But she’s got the same blonde hair as the others.”
“Could be a copy-cat killing.” Caleb bent down and surveyed the woman’s body. “But if she’s got a record, we’ll get an ID with her prints.” He shook his head. “Damn shame. She’s a pretty girl.” He took a second look at her face. “She looks familiar.”
Marino grinned. “Have you been making trips across the tracks?”
Caleb shot a withering glare at Marino. “Don’t push your luck with me. I’m still your boss, you know.”
“Damn, you must not have had your coffee this morning.”
“Sorry, I just don’t do cold weather well, especially at this time of the morning.”
“Get used to it,” Marino continued the banter. “This winter is predicted to be colder and wetter than normal.”
“You just had to remind me.” Still leaning over the body, Caleb returned his gaze to the woman’s face. “It seems like I saw her on TV news recently.” He pointed to the tip of a cell phone sticking out from under the body. “Her phone ought to give us an ID if it’s hers.” He mentally noted the victim’s clothing seemed in place, not askew as if she’d been dragged. “By the way, who discovered the body?”
Marino indicated with a head motion toward a uniformed officer standing nearby. “Talbot told me a jogger spotted the body and called nine-one-one. He took her statement and contact info and sent her on her way.” He flipped a page in his notebook and added, “The jogger’s name was Linda Hymel.”
Caleb noted a ring with a large diamond on the victim’s hand. “This was no robbery, that’s for sure. That rock is hard to miss, plus leaving the cell behind. It’s almost like he wanted her to be identified.”
“Hey, the coroner’s investigator just arrived.” Marino blew out a deep breath. “Hell, look who it is.”
A heavy-set man exited his vehicle and strode toward them with a know-it-all smile on his face.
Marino uttered an obscenity, silently echoed by Caleb. “Why couldn’t Cindy be on call this morning instead of him?”
“Bad luck for us. I heard she left on her maternity leave.”
“Already? So we’re going to be stuck with him spouting off his version of the scene.”
Caleb agreed with the other detective’s opinion, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “He does know his stuff.”
“I know, but it burns my ass when he acts like he’s always right about everything.”
“Detectives,” the investigator greeted them.
Marino grinned slyly. “How’s it going, Hebert?”
The investigator frowned. “The name is pronounced Hee-bert, not A-bear.”
“Sorry, I forgot,” Marino said, with feigned contrition. “Hell, you’re in South Louisiana now. Why not go with the flow?”
Hebert narrowed his gaze at the two detectives. “Didn’t I hear you both say a few times you get irritated when someone from up North pronounces LeBlanc as LeBlonk? I grew up in Texas and that’s the way I pronounce my name. I get irritated too. ” He didn’t wait for a response and knelt beside the body to begin his examination.
“She doesn’t appear to have been dead long. Maybe last night or early this morning. Of course, the cold might distort that. Autopsy should tell for certain. Marks around her neck indicate she might have been strangled.” He gently lifted one of the woman’s eyelids. “Hemorrhaging in the eyes…yeah, strangulation.”
Hebert picked up the sprig of mistletoe with his latex-clad fingers and handed it to Marino, who put the piece into a small paper bag. The investigator then took a long look at the woman’s face. “You know who this is.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell us,” Marino mumbled.
Either the investigator didn’t hear his comment or he chose to ignore it. He announced her identity with certainty. “Joanna Chatelaine. She and her sister started a women’s outreach center. I heard it’s over in Old Town.” He referred to an area of Oak Pointe where many low-income residents lived.
Marino pursed his lips. “You mean that homeless mission?”
Caleb answered before Hebert could respond. “No, this one’s strictly a women’s place. I can’t believe I didn’t realize before. I knew I’d seen her somewhere. A Baton Rouge TV station did a story about the two sisters on a news show a few weeks ago. They didn’t disclose the exact location of the center for security reasons.” He frowned. “You said their place is actually in Old Town?”
“Right,” Hebert muttered. “You didn’t know about it?”
Caleb hated to admit his ignorance about the shelter, especially in front of Hebert and Marino. He might have known if he hadn’t been having a big pity party because of his divorce anniversary. “No, hadn’t heard a word. The women were interviewed in the television studio—no film footage of the place. I figured they were located in Baton Rouge.”
Marino frowned. “The women who go there must all be hookers.”
“Most of them are.” Hebert threw him his usual superior smile. “Seeing as how your two previous victims were prostitutes, I’m surprised y’all haven’t been over there to interview some of those gals.”
His remark really made Caleb’s day. Why hadn’t he even heard about that place right under his nose in Oak Pointe? Did his other detectives know about the shelter? Or could everyone in Homicide, including himself, be slacking off because both previous victims were only hookers? He looked at Marino with a questioning look.
“I went out to Old Town with Bergeron right after we found the second victim. We interviewed a few people, but you know how it is. No one knew anything. There was a church on Fourth Street and that homeless shelter a few blocks away.”
Caleb refrained from replying further to Marino’s comment and returned his attention to this victim. “Turn her over. We need that cell phone.”
Hebert complied and handed the phone to him.
He punched up the call list to see her latest phone calls. There were four missed calls from the same number showing the name Jamie on the display.
“Got something?” Marino asked.
“This appears to be her. Four calls from someone with the same name as the other sister.”
Hebert expression said I-told-you-so, but he didn’t comment.
Caleb continued his search on the phone. “There are also three other missed calls from someone named Adrien. Boyfriend?”
Marino looked optimistic. “It’s possible this is a copy-cat murder. The boyfriend decides to get rid of her and tries to make it look like the Mistletoe Man’s work.”
Caleb shook his head. “We should be so lucky.” He kept scrolling down the call list and spotted a call from a suspicious number. “Someone phoned her at nine-o-one—unknown number.”
He pressed call back. The phone rang several times. A man answered.
“This is Caleb Bourque with Oak Pointe Police. Who am I speaking to?”
“Rob Durant. I do maintenance at Phil’s truck stop. The phone was in the trash. It rang so I picked it up.”
“Hold on to it and stay where you are. A detective will be there to talk to you and pick up the phone.” Caleb turned to Marino. “Get over to Phil’s truck stop and talk to a guy named Rob. The phone’s probably a burner so it’s a long shot, but we might get something off it.”
Marino indicated agreement with a nod and added, “I’ll take a look around while I’m there to see if I can come up with anything else we can use.”
Hebert stood and signaled the morgue attendants to bring the gurney. “Two other observations. She’s got marks around her wrists. I’d say she’d been bound. Her shoes and clothing don’t indicate she was dragged through the woods. No bodily fluids on the ground. I believe the killer dumped her here.”
Caleb brushed his hand over his face. Just as he had suspected. “So we’re looking at a second crime scene.”
Marino groaned. “Just like the two before her.”
“So the time of death might be earlier. The autopsy will tell the story,” Hebert said.
Caleb and the other men watched in silence as the attendants loaded the body into the van and drove away.
“Guess I’ll go talk to the sister and give her the bad news,” Caleb said.
Two
Jamie Chatelaine’s heartbeat slowed. Her sister’s Toyota was the lone vehicle parked in the lot behind Faith Chapel. In the dim light of early morning, the surrounding area appeared deserted, as if the place had been abandoned.
Her car’s here now. It wasn’t around one o’clock when she and Michael went searching for her. Why didn’t she answer her phone? Why didn’t she call me? Boy, would she give Joanna what-for when she discovered her sleeping snug in one of the bunks in the women’s outreach center.
An old VW Beetle belonging to Oscar, one of the cooks, pul
led into the lot. He drove the rattling car into a spot close to the rear door and went inside.
Jamie exited her car and walked quickly toward the building, pulling her jacket close in an attempt to ward off the cold wind.
Inside the aroma of bacon sizzling on the stove greeted her. Bertha, another kitchen worker, usually arrived first, since she lived within walking distance. She always got breakfast started.
Ordinarily the smell of breakfast food would evoke warm memories of Jamie’s childhood, but not today. Her sister hadn’t returned home last night after a meeting with someone who needed counseling.
Bertha, a stout African-American woman, greeted Jamie. “You look worried or mad. Somethin’ wrong?”
“Is Joanna somewhere in the building?”
Bertha’s dark eyes widened. “No, she’s not here. I saw her car, but I haven’t seen her.”
Jamie’s heart raced. “Are you sure she’s not here?”
“I’m positive. I thought she might’ve spent the night here and I was gonna ask her if she wanted breakfast.” She wiped her hands on the tail of her white apron. “Maybe her car wouldn’t start and Mister Blanchard came and picked her up.”
“Maybe,” Jamie said, without much confidence in that explanation. Joanna would have called and told her so.
It wasn’t like her sister not to call if she decided to spend the night in the center. But Jamie felt she had to check it out since all her phone calls to Joanna had gone directly to voicemail. Even if Joanna had gone home with Adrien, she would have let her know.
She retrieved her phone from her purse and punched in the number for Adrien, her sister’s fiancé. After what seemed like forever, he answered in a groggy voice.