I pushed those thoughts away and went up to the house. The front door was slightly ajar. Studying the lock, it looked as if it had been jimmied.
Had someone broken in?
I found that hard to accept as the house was currently unoccupied, and I'd seen nothing inside of particular value.
Nonetheless, I wasn't going to dismiss the possibility outright. Especially with the door showing clear signs of being forced open.
Taking out the pepper mace I kept in my purse for protection, I entered the house guardedly. It took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
"Hello..." I said, as if I were visiting rather than being visited by an uninvited guest.
I got no response and called out again with the same result.
I began to mount the stairs, hopeful that if anyone had been in the house they were long gone by now.
That's when I heard the hardwood creaking on the first floor, and there was no mistaking the footsteps.
My heart lurched. "Who's there?"
Instead of an answer, the steps picked up their pace, past the kitchen, down the hall, and into the doorway leading to the back door.
A moment later, I heard the door open and slam shut.
Instinctively and perhaps foolishly, I ran back down the stairs and out the front door, hoping the intruder might come that way and show his or her face.
I was too late for that. I saw the back of someone wearing a hooded sweater race toward the car parked on the street and get inside.
Without giving it much thought, I jumped off the porch and ran after the person, still hoping to get a look at the face or a license plate. I failed on both counts as the car sped away, leaving me in its wake.
What did the intruder want in the house? I thought of the creepy rental agent and wondered if he had left something inside from yesterday. But he had a key, so he wouldn't need to break in.
Stranger things had happened though.
I went back inside and cut on some lights. There was no indication anything had been taken. Not that I would know upon a cursory glance, as I wasn't familiar with the house's contents.
I thought I heard a noise upstairs. Was someone still here? Or was it just the sounds associated with an older house settling?
Climbing the stairs once again, I kept my mace handy. Upon reaching the second floor, I cut on the hall light. The illumination poured into the various rooms, but I focused on the master bedroom.
The door was partially shut, which was strange in and of itself. I distinctly remembered it being wide open when Elliot and I completed our tour yesterday. And I was pretty sure that Luther Pickford had left the house at the same time we did. There was no reason to believe he would have come back. Which wasn't the same thing as saying he hadn't.
It occurred to me that besides the intruder who got away, the house could have mice or some other pests looking for company. The thought was unsettling.
Using my foot, I pushed the door open slowly, keeping the pepper mace as my line of defense.
My eyes went straight to the bed. I screamed in shock and horror when I saw a woman lying flat on her stomach with a large knife protruding from her back. The woman's face was turned awkwardly to the side, and her eyes were staring blankly at me.
It took only a moment to realize where I'd seen that face before.
Twice.
Yesterday at the library. And then the Biltmore Theater Company.
Camelia Fenkell.
Why had she been here hours before our scheduled practice session?
Who had killed her and why?
Why here at this house?
All I knew was that Camelia played the role of Marilyn Sheppard in a way none of us could have imagined. Someone decided to take the reenactment to a whole new level—making sure Camelia wouldn't walk away when the proverbial curtain came down.
Camelia had been murdered, and it was anything but a history lesson.
* * *
Half an hour later, the house had become the scene of a real life murder investigation. There were crime scene technicians and investigators combing the place for evidence and clues. It wasn't exactly like CSI, but Pearl's Village did pride itself on being up to date in crime investigation.
I hoped that would be enough to get to the bottom of Camelia Fenkell's death.
"Why didn't you wake me to go with you?" Elliot asked. He'd rushed over the moment he got the disturbing news.
I knew he was concerned about what might have happened if I hadn't scared the killer off or had arrived just a few minutes earlier. We were standing in the living room. Camelia's body remained upstairs until the coroner and police chief arrived.
"There was no reason to. I didn't expect to find a murder scene when I got here."
"I didn't either or I never would have let you rent this house."
"You couldn't have known, Elliot. Besides, it wasn't the house per se. I suspect Camelia would have been murdered whether she was here or somewhere else tonight."
"That's assuming the rental agent wasn't the one who killed her."
I considered that prospect and certainly couldn't rule it out. Especially if it was Luther Pickford's intent to make this look like a break-in to cover his tracks.
"Yes, that's possible," I conceded. "But I think it's more likely Camelia knew her killer than came upon a stranger. She was probably lured to the house and murdered."
"Interesting theory, Ms. Vensetta, though that's all it is at the moment," the voice said succinctly.
Elliot and I turned to see the Pearl's Village Chief of Police, Ham Rutger, approaching. In his late forties, he was muscular and had short grayish hair.
We'd met last semester when he was a guest lecturer in my police procedures course.
"Good morning, Chief Rutger," I said.
His brow furrowed. "I don't think so. Not with a dead body up there."
I couldn't argue the point. "Well, it's certainly not the way I planned to start my day either."
"I'll get to you on that in a moment." He looked toward the stairs. "Right now, I'd like to take a look at the victim."
"Be my guest," I said as if he needed my permission.
"Don't go anywhere—either of you."
"We wouldn't think of it," Elliot said.
I concurred, having no desire to flee the scene of the crime prematurely. Not when there were so many unanswered questions as to why Camelia Fenkell had been murdered in my rental house.
* * *
By the time the coroner came and removed Camelia's body, the reality of her mysterious murder really began to set in as death hung over the house like fog.
I had hoped Professor Fenkell would arrive before his wife was taken away. But, oddly enough, after trying his number several times, the police hadn't been able to reach him.
Chief Rutger questioned me alone while Elliot stepped outside for some fresh air.
"So I understand you were renting this house?" the chief asked.
"That's right, but not to live in."
"Oh...?"
"I rented it for my independent study."
He gave me a curious look. "What kind of independent study?"
I explained to him in as few words as possible the nature of my project.
Chief Rutger swallowed thickly. "You're telling me that you were staging the nineteen-fifty-something Marilyn Sheppard murder?"
"It was 1954, and the reenactment wasn't scheduled till this afternoon."
"And Ms. Fenkell was to be in it?"
"Yes, and it's Mrs. Fenkell. She and her husband, Glenn Fenkell, are professors at the university."
He took notes. "Let me guess, Mrs. Fenkell was to play the role of Marilyn Sheppard?"
"Yes, that's correct," I acknowledged reluctantly.
He chuckled humorlessly. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Maybe you should be. She wasn't supposed to be here till this afternoon for the rehearsal. The fact that she showed up here in the middle of the night
is very surprising to me."
"Why do you think she did that?" He stared at me unblinkingly.
"I have no idea. I'm guessing she either came with the person who killed her or came on her own and was followed by the killer."
"Those are reasonable assumptions. But they still don't tell us why. Do you have any idea who would want to kill Mrs. Fenkell?"
A few suspects came to mind. I recalled Sharon Weiss's stormy accusation of her husband, Jason, having an affair with Camelia. Neither Camelia nor Jason confirmed this, but it didn't appear to be entirely without merit.
What if Jason was having an affair with Camelia and then killed her to protect his marriage, shaky as it may have been?
Or maybe Sharon was pushed over the edge with insane jealousy and went after Camelia.
It was also hard to overlook Glenn Fenkell as the possible killer, even if I wanted to believe otherwise. Maybe he'd decided murder was more preferable than divorcing his wife, freeing him to be with his alleged young girlfriend, Tatum Douglas.
Or maybe Tatum stepped way out of her league in pursuing an older man and was willing to do whatever it took to get rid of the competition.
I ran these possibilities by Chief Rutger, not sure he'd take any of it seriously with nothing to go on in the form of tangible proof.
"Well, that's certainly some food for thought," he said. "I'll check it out."
Feeling on a roll, I decided to toss one more suspect at him.
"While you're at it, you might want to run a check on Luther Pickford—the man who rented me the house."
Chief Rutger rolled his eyes. "Why? You think he had something to do with it?"
"I couldn't really say, since I never got a good look at the person who ran off. But he was acting pretty strange yesterday."
"There are lots of strange people in Pearl's Village," he said dismissively. "Doesn't make them all killers."
I sighed. "But it only takes one to fit the bill."
"I'll have a talk with Luther Pickford." The chief flipped the page in his notepad. "Why don't you tell me about this car you claim the killer drove away in?"
I ignored the swipe at my credibility. "It was dark-colored. I'm not sure about the make or model."
"You didn't happen to get the license plate number or a partial, did you?"
"Sorry. It was just too dark."
"Too bad." He ran a hand across his chin. "Guess that's all for now. But I may need to talk to you later."
"Don't worry, I won't be leaving town," I promised.
"Good. Now as for your little reenactment, since this is now an official crime scene, you'll have to postpone it till we complete our investigation."
"I assure you that I have no desire to interfere with your investigation or carry on with my independent study as though nothing happened."
"Then we understand each other, Ms. Vensetta."
"Perfectly."
The front door burst open and a female deputy entered, followed by Glenn Fenkell and Elliot.
"This is the victim's husband," the deputy told her boss. "We found him wandering around outside, almost in a daze."
Indeed, Glenn did appear to be disoriented, disheveled, and intoxicated. I wasn't sure what to make of this, but it didn't look good.
"Professor Fenkell..." I approached him.
"Madsen," he said. "My wife...what happened to her?"
"You don't know?"
"No one's told me anything. Where is she?"
I paused and glanced at Elliot, wishing there was an easy way to say it.
Chief Rutger apparently had no such reservations. After identifying himself, he said bluntly, "Mr. Fenkell, your wife's dead. Someone murdered her in this house early this morning. Maybe you can tell us where you've been?"
Glenn gazed at me blankly and drew a breath. "That's the thing, I'm not really sure."
I turned to Chief Rutger and could plainly see that as far as he was concerned, Glenn Fenkell had just become the number one suspect in his wife's murder.
* * *
I stayed at Elliot's place for what was left of the early morning darkness, not wanting to be alone. Though exhausted, sleep was once again hard to come by. Tossing and turning, I kept coming back to Camelia's killer. The person seemed vaguely familiar, though I never got a good look due to the hooded sweater and the darkness. Obviously, the killer had wanted to hide his or her identity.
After a while, I slipped from Elliot's grasp, got dressed, and went into the bathroom to wash my face. I grabbed a towel off the shelf and dried my face. As I was about to put the towel in the hamper, my eyes honed in on a balled up dark sweater. Curiosity made me pick it up. The sweater had a hood and looked very much like the one the killer was wearing when running from the rental house.
My heart skipped a beat in that moment. Was Elliot Camelia's murderer? Or was this just a coincidence?
Gut instincts told me there was more to the man I was involved with than met the eye—and none of it good.
I thought about the fact it was Elliot who suggested that particular house to stage my reenactment. He must have known the house well—perhaps had even lived there once—and as such was able to make his escape through the back door when he realized I had a good view of the front door. He couldn't take the chance I might recognize him even with the hood on.
The bathroom door opened and Elliot filled the space. There was a scowl on his face when he noticed I was holding the sweater.
"The moment you went into the bathroom, I remembered the sweater," he said. "I was hoping you wouldn't find it."
I colored as he confirmed my suspicions. "You killed Camelia? Why?"
"She left me no choice. You see, working in the same department, she discovered I was embezzling funds from a research project and decided to blackmail me into keeping her silence. I went along with it till she got too greedy and stupid."
I tried to process this group of crimes: embezzlement, blackmail, and murder. How could I have been so wrong about him? Or had I simply not looked hard enough?
"Why did you have to involve me in your sordid criminal activities?"
"It wasn't intentional." Elliot chuckled derisively. "You have to admit, though, the Marilyn Sheppard murder reenactment idea was perfect. I even hinted to Camelia that she should take the part, knowing she performed for the theater on the side and would find it too irresistible to pass up. Once I set you up at a place with a sure-fire escape route, I was in business. It wasn't very difficult to get Camelia to meet me at the house at a time when neither of us would attract suspicion. She thought I was going to buckle under to her unreasonable demands. Instead, my desire was to silence her for good." His eyes narrowed. "I hadn't counted on you coming there in the middle of the night, though you were too late to save her." His voice softened. "I didn't want this to come between us."
I flashed him a hard gaze. "But it has, and there's no putting the genie back in the bottle."
"I'm afraid you're right." He approached me.
I took a step backwards, wishing I had the can of mace in my hands instead of the sweater.
"Just let me go home, Elliot. I'll give you an hour to get away before I call the police."
I saw no reason to insult his intelligence by suggesting my lips would remain forever sealed as to what I knew. I hoped that whatever we once had would be good for something.
He laughed. "Why would I want to give up what's been a pretty good life thus far to become a fugitive when I can solve my one remaining problem right now? I'm really sorry it has to end this way, Madsen."
He lifted his arms like Frankenstein, prepared to strangle me with his bare hands. Having literally been backed to the sink, all I could think to do was toss the sweater at him, which he easily blocked.
I began to scream at the same time his hands wrapped around my neck. He succeeded in muffling my cries by applying more pressure.
Knowing Elliot had every intention of adding me to his collection of murder victims, I tried kicking
and clawing, but it had no effect on him. Then I remembered seeing a can of shaving cream by the sink. Somehow I managed to grab it and in one swift motion sprayed it liberally at his eyes, covering them with the white foam.
He yowled and released his grip on my neck, wiping his eyes and face. I took what I believed to be my last chance to escape and kneed him as hard as I could in the crotch.
He bowled over in pain, allowing me to slip by him and race for the door.
I unlocked and opened it before I felt him grab my hair from behind. Elliot tossed me to the floor.
I felt lightheaded and wondered if all my efforts would prove for naught and Elliot would get away with not one, but two cold-blooded murders.
"Why couldn't you have made this simple?" he asked, clearly not expecting an answer.
I gave him one anyway. "Go to hell!"
Just as he was about to lunge at me, the front door burst open. Chief Rutger stood there, gun drawn.
"Hold it, Arness!" he demanded. "You're under arrest for the murder of Camelia Fenkell."
Elliot rounded on him. "I don't think so."
He rushed toward the chief like a madman, leaving him no choice but to shoot Elliot, twice. It was the second bullet to his neck that proved fatal.
Chief Rutger helped me to my feet. "Are you all right?"
I nodded, though I doubted I'd ever be the same again. "How did you find out?"
"With Glenn Fenkell's help. Once the booze began to wear off, he remembered Camelia had confessed to him about the blackmail and embezzlement schemes. Apparently, she had agreed to meet with Arness to convince him to turn himself in as she planned to do. But Arness had something else in mind."
I forced myself to look at the man who had been my lover. Lying on his back, his eyes were still open but empty. What a tragic waste. I wondered what could possess someone who seemed to have everything to want so much more at such a terrible price.
I hoped I never had to find out.
* * *
Two months later, my completed independent study was now history. Circumstances had made me change the focus somewhat. Instead of a reenactment of a famous old murder case with the perpetrator being a bushy-haired intruder, I re-created a modern true murder mystery, complete with enough twists and turns to make for a bestselling book where the dynamics were equally riveting.
Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) Page 19