Three_Deception Love Murder

by K. J. McGillick

  Three

  Copyright © 2017 by Kathleen McGillick

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  KJRM Publishing LLC

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author/publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author publisher.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book. All possibly trademarked names are honored by italics and no infringement is intended. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any references to historical or actual events, locales, business establishments, places or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  Editing:

  Amy Donnelly, Alchemy and Words LLC

  Proofreading:

  Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  Contents

  Three

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  About the Author

  Connect with K.J.

  In memory of my grandparents Florence

  and William who molded the person I am today.

  Dedicated to my son Mark-Michael

  and grandchildren Rinoa and Jude.

  An acknowledgement to my sister

  Diane my best friend and sounding board.

  Emma

  THREE.

  Three is the mystical number.

  Omne trium perfectum.

  Three blind mice. Three musketeers. The three bears.

  Beginning, middle, and end.

  Three, two, one . . . BOOM!

  Consequences not of my making were nipping at my heels. Tick tock.

  The clock radio delivered the morning news announcing that another terrorist attack had rocked the city of London. The weapon was a vehicle that smashed into shoppers as they ambled through a London street fair unaware they were living the last moments of their lives. Lives were destroyed and countless others were torn apart forever. Paris, Brussels, London, Munich—all sites of terrorist attacks sweeping the news. Monsters hid in plain sight.

  I stayed stone still, afraid to move. My skull, a concrete block anchored to my pillow. My stomach twisted in rebellion reflective of a night of bad decisions. Unable to open my eyes even a sliver, I knew this day would not be my finest.

  I heard my phone buzz, but could not move a muscle. Lucy’s massive sheepdog body pinned my legs to the bed. Sigmund the demon cat had his thick body draped across my chest. Unable to roll over in any direction, I searched frantically with my fingers to find where I dropped my phone last night. There were no voice or text messages. The screen flashed a Boston area code.

  Jude—my significant other, partner, boyfriend—didn’t come home last night. He hadn’t returned any of my calls either which was just another indicator of how badly our relationship had devolved. Yet this went beyond rude. He had been gone for business trips that lasted a week before, but those were always planned and announced.

  Jude and I lived together, and had once been solid in our relationship. We haven’t been intimate for over eight months and no longer shared a bed. He had his life and I had mine. But we haven’t been communicating at all and I no longer loved him. Would I call the police today to see if he was in an accident, or the hospitals to see if he was on a respirator and unable to reach me? That would be a big hell no. Not this morning anyway. I’d give it another day or two. Well, I’d give him until tomorrow night. Or else I’d be a topic for Dateline or the 20/20 television shows.

  After a year of dating, Jude and I had entered into a registered domestic partnership. The partnership was not what I had hoped for when he asked me to share his beautiful home with him. We were not married, but what we had was more than living together. In the end, our domestic partnership agreement offered legal protection to each of us, but none of the emotional protection I longed for in a relationship.

  We had bonded over our love of art. As of late, even that commonality had waned. I was an academic professor who immersed my life in art and taught art history at the university. He was the handsome charismatic businessman that sold and restored art. Now I felt his love of art was wrapped up in the overinflated income it produced for him.

  He left for a short trip to Boston yesterday and was supposed to be back in the late afternoon. The trip was twofold. He was picking up paintings from an art gallery which I assume he planned to sell, and then he was stopping quickly to meet with the director of the museum to assess a painting he was commissioned to restore. While at the museum, Jude was to retrieve information from the historian there that wasn’t available to the public. The museum information was for an article that wasn’t even my idea, but his brainchild. However, he never returned home and left me hanging without the necessary research to complete the article. What was absolutely unacceptable was he did not respond to any of my attempts to communicate with him and now all calls were going straight to voicemail.

  Spying the incoming call, I tapped to accept the call and answered with an abrupt, “Hello.”

  “Good morning. Might I speak to Emma Collier?” From the sound of his voice, I deduced the man on the line was perhaps in his fifties.

  “This is she. How can I help you?” I said preparing to disconnect the call when he inevitably announced he was a telemarketer.

  “This is Martin Buren, the manager of the United Bank in Boston. I need a moment of your time.” His voice exuded a hint of nervousness. I was not in the mood to indulge any marketers this morning, banker or not.

  “Thank you for the call, Mr. Buren, but let me save you the sales pitch. I am satisfied with my bank. I have been a loyal customer for fifteen years and have no wish to move accounts or open any other.” That should do it. Polite and to the point.

  “Um, well. I am happy about that, but my call is about your safe depos
it box here at United Bank. Last night we had an issue with our safe deposit room. We need you to come to the bank to inventory your box. The FBI has a form for you to complete after you confirm the inventory. When can we expect you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. You have the wrong Emma Collier. I don’t have a safe deposit box at any bank.” I was stumped how my name and phone number were attached to said deposit box. Unfortunately, I was seconds away from disconnecting the phone regardless of our discussion to bolt for the bathroom. My stomach had progressed from rebellion to full revolt from my exploits the night before.

  “If you will indulge me, I can assure you there is a box here registered in your name. If you wish, I can read the information to you for identification purposes. It should only take a moment,” he said as agitation crept into his voice.

  To avoid conflict, I agreed.

  “I’m ready when you are,” he said, and I detected the click of computer keys.

  “Fine.” I struggled to sit up, moving slowly.

  “I have your name as Emma Louise Collier, 131 Elby Street, Portland, Maine, date of birth May 26, 1982. Maine driver’s license number 129987. Your present occupation is Professor of Art History at the University of Maine East Campus,” he said, obviously reading from a computer.

  I didn’t see the harm in confirming that information and waited for Mr. Buren to continue.

  “Very good. Our records reflect, you have had the safe deposit box for two years and last accessed it one week ago using your driver’s license as identification. The telephone number on file is the one we have called you on,” he replied, his voice monotone.

  “Mr. Buren, your data is correct, but you said I accessed the box last week. I think I would know if I had a safe deposit box much less if I’d accessed it one week ago. I can assure you I have never accessed the box,” I stated. “Please read me the dates that you say I have accessed the box.”

  “The information about accessing the box we can discuss in person, and at that time the bank can allow you to review the records. When should we expect you to inventory the contents and complete the release forms?” He was trying to lock me down. It sounded like he was in a hurry to finish with this call and move to the next.

  “This is ridiculous. You want me to come all the way from Maine to Boston to identify a box I don’t own, but you won’t tell me anything more?” I was annoyed, to say the least. “Look, I don’t want to be argumentative, but this is a mistake on your end. I will have to drive two hours, maybe three, to clear up something that has nothing to do with me. I realize this is your job, but there must be some way to clear this up over the telephone.”

  “If you check your morning email, United Bank sent official correspondence regarding this matter, and I just sent a copy of the license on file at the bank. Your identification was presented to us to open the box previously and is needed whenever it’s accessed. Again, it was verified as recently as a week ago. If a problem exists, you can address it when you are here. I’m not able to do anything else now,” he said attempting to end my arguing.

  Within seconds, my phone alerted me that I had a new email. I popped it open. My stomach dipped and tipped as I viewed the license. My breaths became a little shallow as I laser focused on the email containing almost all of my personal confidential information.

  “Oh my God! This can’t be possible. The picture looks like me, except this picture has a person who wears prescription lenses. I don’t use glasses. Who is this person?”

  The bile clawed up my throat as I studied the signature and it looked similar to mine.

  “I know my driver’s license is in my possession. I used it yesterday as identification. I can tell you I don’t have glasses on in the photo for the license in my possession.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say to you, but this is what we have on file along with your social security card and safe deposit box application. Now I have a long list of people to contact. When can we expect you?” I pictured Mr. Buren tapping his computer buttons, prepared to call the next person . . . and the next.

  “I have a class to teach this morning, and then I have to pick up my aunt from her memory care facility. I’m in Maine. So, it is impossible for me to drive two hours to Boston before you close. I believe my boyfriend is in Boston or the Boston area. Could he come over and clear this up?” I asked even though I was well aware that Jude had ignored a day of calls and texts. He certainly wouldn’t be helping with this mess.

  “No, I am sorry. The FBI was specific with their instructions.” He put his hand over the receiver, and I heard him speaking to someone but could not make out what they were saying.

  “The agent in charge said he could send two Maine detectives tonight. They will take a statement from you as you think someone might be using your license, and that the photo ID we have on file might be fake. But you must come in tomorrow to do the inventory. Should you choose not to cooperate the agent said to tell you they will send someone to pick you up and escort you here.”

  “Fine, but I won’t be home to meet the officers to take a statement until about seven,” I huffed out annoyed. I whipped back my covers, but was still unable to move. I was nauseous before. Now I was angry to face the hellish day ahead.

  “Noted. Have a nice day,” he said. Obviously, he didn’t care if I did or didn’t have a nice day.

  He had thrown a major monkey wrench in my busy day, and I didn’t see it improving. Was I the victim of an identity theft scam? That made little to no sense. Scammers took something from you. They didn’t give you something of value. My credit was excellent, and there hadn’t been any suspicious activity on my credit report.

  I blamed Eloise and her tarot card reader for this mess of a morning. Eloise, my best friend since college some fifteen years ago, was an enigma. She was a buttoned-up reserved wills, trust, and estate lawyer by day, and a wild-haired, gypsy dressing occultist by night. She fiercely fought with me regularly over her belief that Wiccan was indeed a protected religion and that I should be more open-minded. The only use I had for pagan rituals were how they flourished under the brush strokes of the hands of Renaissance painters such as Botticelli and Titian.

  As the alcohol fog lifted, quick snippets like an eight-millimeter movie played through my mind of the card reader from last night that Eloise dragged me to visit.

  I remember entering the room. I had expected to be greeted by a woman dressed in a white pirate-like blouse, billowing black skirt, gold bangles hanging from her arms making a clattering noise, a red bandanna around some wild-ass hair, and a crystal ball. But what I saw was a woman with a slight hump in her back who was most likely in her eighties. Her straight white hair was carefully pulled back and pinned in a low bun. Seated in a wheelchair, she pulled up close to the table that had two white, well-used candles standing on top. A deck of cards was carefully placed in the center. Nothing else.

  The woman invited me to take the seat across from her, bowed her head and asked God to bring me guidance and love. Well, what do you say to that? Amen? Thank you? Not having a clue, I remained silent. I had intended at the initiation of the session to tell her I was a non-believer and offer to pay for her time and leave but she beat me to the first words.

  “Pull in closer, child, I won’t bite.” Such a sweet smile graced her face, she reminded me of Aunt Mary.

  “My name is Agnes, and I can see you are apprehensive. No need to be. Take as much as you want from what I tell you today. Or as little.” She waited a few beats and then extended her hand. “Your hand, please, palm up so I may study your lines of love, life, and health,” she instructed.

  Into her soft hand, I extended my right hand. Using her thumb, she gently pressed my palm so my hand extended itself. As my hand lay open in her hand, she studied it with great interest. I watched her eyes slowly move left to right then down to up. Satisfied she had gleaned everything she could from the lines in my hand she placed my hand down on the table palm up. A barely noticeable sigh emit
ted from her narrow lips. The sigh, was that a good sign or a bad sign? Instructed by Eloise not to interrupt or question her until she had completed the entire reading, I found it nearly impossible not to pepper her with questions.

  Agnes handed me a deck of oversized cards with black, white, and blue lines intersecting each other on the back and colorful pictures of people, objects, and Roman numerals on the front. She instructed me to shuffle the deck three times and place the deck back in front of her. Rubbing her hands together several times she then flicked them in front of her as if ridding herself of bad energy. Next, she lit the candles that smelled of vanilla to her left, closed her eyes, and said what appeared to be a silent prayer.

  She turned her attention to the pile of cards in front of her touching the pile as she spoke. “I will be turning over the cards one at a time and contemplate the meaning of each card as the spirit speaks to me. I will start with what has passed. I will not know an exact time frame in days or months, I will not know whether it is far past or recent past. But it will be in the past whether you are aware or not. I will end with what lies ahead. Do you understand?”

  Nodding, however not having a clue what she was talking about but better just to go with the flow and get out of here. As I sat ram-rod straight leaning just a tad forward, I felt a zing of electricity pass through me from head to tail. Something like I would imagine a lightning strike would feel. Adrenaline rush? Fear? No, probably an aneurysm or getting ready to be struck dead by God for participating in witchery.

  The first card she turned was upside down and portrayed a fair-haired man dressed in what was a royal attire. The undergarment a light blue with orange sleeves enveloped by a purple cape and a ring on his left hand and a crown sat proudly upon his head. His body appeared tight and inflexible as he gripped his long sword upright in his right hand. His features reflected a hardened man. Upon closer inspection, he was surrounded on his left by some type of black birds, maybe crows or ravens.

  “A man close to you, fair-haired, young, set in his ways. A man of great control. Rigid. Not a person who would welcome a family with you as the King of Cups would,” she spoke as she touched the card. “Look at his left hand, he is already betrothed.”