Homicidal Holidays

by Donna Andrews

  Whittaker ran through it again, but Rush’s story didn’t change much. After reconnecting with Freeman, who didn’t have anything new to add from Rush’s husband, Whittaker headed back to talk to Maggie Patrickson. When he took her aside, Gilmore didn’t look pleased.

  “Ms. Patrickson, how long have you known Mr. Bailey and Mr. Gilmore?”

  She rubbed her eyes before answering. “I’ve been going out with Shaun for two years now, I guess. We met at the local theater.”

  “And Mr. Bailey?”

  She blinked back tears. “We met about a year ago when we did a performance of Pirates of Penzance. We formed Swashbucklers right after that.”

  “Is there anything you know about Mr. Bailey that would have caused you to expect tonight’s actions?”

  “No. God, no. I can’t imagine what would make him do that. It’s crazy. Larry wasn’t crazy.”

  “Could he have been under the influence of alcohol?” He could tell that Patrickson certainly was. He could smell the rum from three feet away.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe when he took his dinner break. We alternate so there are always at least two people performing. We take our jobs very seriously. Larry, especially. He was obsessed with accuracy, read up on real pirates, refused to participate in what he called ‘pirate myths’ like talking about buried treasure or singing ‘Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest’ and stuff like that. He said that was all stuff from the movies.”

  Whittaker waved his hand up and down, indicating her costume. “This outfit is accurate?”

  She glanced down. “This? Well, no.” She tried to smile through the tears. “I used to dress up like a female pirate, but since that just meant I dressed like a man, it wasn’t terribly popular with our audiences. People seemed to like this costume more…especially drunk frat boys. Our repeat business went up when I switched to this outfit. Neither guy liked it—Shaun since he’d get jealous and Larry due to the inaccuracy—but they had to admit the company was doing better with it.”

  “So you don’t know what could have happened tonight?”

  “No. He was happy. We were all happy.”

  * * * *

  Whittaker and his partner talked to several more people, finishing up with Shaun Gilmore again. No one added anything important to their previous account. They notified Bailey’s parents of his death—a task Whittaker would never grow used to—and now they were back in the office. Whittaker stared at the computer screen, reading up on Swashbucklers. The online reviews of the company were good—plenty of positive comments on Maggie Patrickson, especially. There were also several mentions of their authenticity and attention to detail.

  There was no mention of any incidents or issues. No obvious money problems. No criminal records on any of the performers, other than several unpaid parking and speeding tickets for Patrickson. Nothing pointed toward foul play. Perhaps Freeman was right, and this was just a case of death by stupidity.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. Just last month, Whittaker and Freeman investigated a case in which the deceased had been found nude, with duct tape covering his entire head. It appeared to be homicide, but after a thorough and bizarre investigation, they found evidence that the deceased had unusual inclinations, including autoerotic asphyxiation. The idiot did it to himself. So it wasn’t farfetched to speculate that Bailey decided to do this one trick to delight the crowd without considering that he was weighed down by heavy period clothing. It was like that Warner Brothers cartoon, when Daffy blows himself up and says, “I can only do it once.”

  Whittaker’s phone rang, and he cursed as he read Cassie’s number on the display. He’d forgotten to let her know he’d miss dinner. “Sorry, honey, I got tied up,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

  “I hope not literally,” she said. “Did someone tie ye up to the mainmast?”

  Good. Cassie obviously wasn’t mad at him, since she was still using pirate speak. “No, not literally. The only thing I’m tied to is the computer screen. Research.”

  “So, who died?”

  “A pirate.”

  She took a moment to respond. “Seriously? What happened, did someone fire off a flintlock?”

  “No. Accidental death, probably. We had some pirate re-enactors performing a choreographed duel, and then one of them ended up in the harbor. Not sure yet if he jumped in, fell in, or was pushed in. Regardless, he went straight down to Davey Jones’s locker.”

  “Nice pirate reference, but, wow, that’s odd. Was alcohol involved? Or more to the point, too much rum?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Anyway, sorry I’m going to miss dinner.”

  “Have ye had any grub tonight?”

  “No.” He looked down when his stomach grumbled. “Something my body just reminded me of.”

  “I can bring you over some jambalaya, and we can eat there. Not the intimate dinner I planned, but it’ll work.”

  “I’d love it. I’ll be the envy of the department, eating your food instead of takeout.” He grinned over at Freeman who was frowning at him over what looked like a ham sandwich.

  “Since Freeman is probably scowling at you, tell him I’ll bring him some, too,” Cassie said. “Be there in ten minutes.”

  Whittaker hung up, walked to Freeman’s desk, and leaned against it. “Throw that thing away.” He nodded at Freeman’s sandwich. “Cassie’s bringing over some real food. Pirate grub.”

  “You’re spoiled.”

  “I am.” Whittaker grinned. “Be happy I share. Cassie’s a great cook. But more amazing, she doesn’t get bent out of shape when I work late. I love her flexibility.”

  Freeman snorted. “I’m sure you do.”

  Whittaker smacked his partner on the back of the head. “Not that way.” He called down to the parking lot and let them know to expect a visitor. Then he went back to his research.

  “Have you found anything about a life insurance policy?” Whittaker asked a couple minutes later. Bailey’s parents had been too devastated when they were informed of their son’s death to answer any questions about finances.

  “Not according to his insurance agent,” Freeman said, lifting up the evidence bag that contained Bailey’s soggy belongings. Freeman’s first job had been to call up the local agent they had found listed in Bailey’s wallet.

  Whittaker went back to researching the company. When Cassie called him from her car, he took the elevator down to the garage level and escorted her back up to the fifth floor. “So how was your day?” he asked, enjoying the smell wafting from the bag he’d taken from her. “Did you get some writing done?”

  “Some. Mostly I did research.” As they stepped off the elevator, she perused the pictures of wanted criminals hanging on the bulletin boards. “Nope, still don’t recognize anyone.”

  “What did you research? Something for your latest book?”

  “Pirates, actually.” She pushed open the door to the homicide department and called out greetings to the detectives she knew. “It’s fascinating stuff.”

  “If you say so.” They reached Whittaker’s desk. He pulled the containers from the bag. “You thinking of making your next book The Marauder Murders to stay with your ‘M’ alliteration theme?”

  “No,” Cassie said as she portioned out the food. “I just got distracted.”

  After Freeman grabbed his plate with a smile and returned to his desk, Whittaker settled behind his own. He scooped up some jambalaya, enjoying the spicy blend of chicken, sausage, and rice. “I’m rather sick of pirates, to tell the truth. Fells Point was crazy.”

  “I’m sure.” Cassie pulled a chair to Whittaker’s desk. “But those aren’t real pirates. That’s just people imitating what they see in movies. It’s not accurate. For example, I read that there were only three instances when pirates buried their treasure. And they never needed maps to find it again, since it was evidently so poorly hidden, it was immediately found.”

  Whittaker continued to eat his dinner as he listened to Cassie spout off fac
ts about pirates. It fascinated him how much she enjoyed her research, regardless of the subject. She would talk with the same gusto about decaying corpses, effects of poisons, or the history of the Baltimore Orioles.

  “And then there’s the ridiculous idea of parley. Like pirates are really going to let a prisoner have temporary protection until they work out a negotiation. Pirates didn’t do that. Sure, they had some code of ethics, but that was more to maintain order on a ship. They truly were ruthless, at least some of them at…”

  He tuned out for a while, enjoying the sound of her voice but thinking about today’s case. There was something wrong. He didn’t trust Gilmore…or Maggie Patrickson. At the very least, he wouldn’t trust her if he were dating her. She had checked him out a little too easily for his liking, especially while standing next to her boyfriend of two years.

  Of course, infidelity doesn’t make for a murderer. Plus, she wasn’t on the scene when the death occurred so how—

  He tuned back into Cassie’s conversation. “What did you just say?”

  She and Freeman were laughing, most likely at him. “I said it was true that pirates carried pterodactyls on their shoulders. I wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

  “Ha-ha. I was paying attention, mostly.” He was relieved that she didn’t seem annoyed at him. Since she often spaced out into her own thoughts and plotting, she never complained when he did the same. Another advantage to dating an author. “So is the parrot thing true?”

  “Actually, that does look to be true. Pirates traveled to exotic places, and parrots were easy to take care of. Plus they’d fetch a good price at various ports. But another thing that isn’t true is…”

  Piracy was often about money and greed, Whittaker mused, tuning into his own thoughts again. Could greed have played a role in this drowning? It did in many homicides, but he couldn’t see how it related to this death. According to the Swashbucklers Arrrr Us website, the team had appeared at many locations, so they were busy. But they didn’t charge much per gig. So probably no one would gain financially from Bailey’s death. And again, it looked like an accident. Was he suspicious for no reason or—

  “What did you say?” This time he was drawn back into Cassie’s monologue for a different reason.

  “I said that the whole ‘walking the plank’ thing was a fabrication as well. It was easier to just toss them over the side, or abandon them to starve on a deserted island, or if you were in a bad mood, keelhaul them. But ‘walk the plank’ was more a fabrication of fiction books.”

  Whittaker stared over at Freeman. They both dropped their spoons and stood up. “Hey, Garcia,” Whittaker called to a detective a few desks over. “Can you walk Cassie out?”

  “Aye aye, captain,” he answered.

  Whittaker leaned over and kissed Cassie on the nose. “You’ve just given us a lead. I’ll see you later tonight.”

  * * * *

  Yes, there were definitely advantages to having an author as a girlfriend.

  Armed with Cassie’s info that walking the plank was a myth, Whittaker brought Gilmore in for interrogation. It didn’t take long to get the truth out of the young man, especially after Freeman pushed the medical examiner for Bailey’s blood alcohol content. It was only .01, far too low to have affected Bailey’s thought processes, and far, far too low for Gilmore’s story that Bailey had been drinking a lot to be true. After Whittaker pointed out Gilmore’s lies, as well as the shallow dagger wound that the M.E. had found on the body, Gilmore confessed quickly.

  Although it was late by the time Whittaker finished booking Gilmore, he headed to Cassie’s to thank her for her information. He filled her in on the case as she got them both drinks.

  “Well, I’m glad you were paying attention to me, James. And it’s cool that I helped you close a case.”

  “You definitely did.” He sat down on the couch and slipped out of his shoes, laughing when the cat came over to bury his face in the smelly interior of one of his loafers. “It seemed unlikely that someone as obsessed with accuracy as the victim would ever turn around and talk about ‘walking the plank.’ Gilmore made that part up. Evidently what they were really saying under their breath was about Patrickson. Gilmore had told Bailey that it wasn’t careful to leave his sweatshirt in Maggie’s bedroom.”

  “Ah, so cheating rears its ugly head,” Cassie said.

  “You got it. The victim and Patrickson had evidently been having an affair for months. So Gilmore decided to get rid of his competition. He also had a real dagger with him for this fight instead of a prop.”

  “So that’s why Bailey jumped away.”

  “Correct. In fact, we found a small wound on the right side of his body, along with a hole in his doublet. So Gilmore did get a slight poke in, just enough to let his former friend know he was serious.”

  “Then Gilmore pretended to try and grab him?” Cassie asked. “Pretty ballsy move to kill someone in front of an audience.”

  “Agreed.” He leaned down to scratch Donner, who had draped his dark, furry body over both shoes. “He said he thought it would convince everyone that it had been Bailey’s stupidity that led to his death. Initially, he had decided to have an ‘accident’ during a duel practice, then decided it would be more effective in front of people. Anyway, thank you again for your help.” He kissed her.

  “My pleasure. Now, maybe you can help me.” She nestled against him and ran her fingers through his hair. “I’ve been writing a love scene, and I’m afraid I’m suffering from writer’s block. How about we re-enact it and see if you can provide some inspiration?”

  Oh yeah, there were definitely advantages to dating an author.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cathy Wiley is happiest when plotting stories in her head or on the computer, or when she’s delving into research. She draws upon her experience in the hospitality business to show the lighter, quirkier side of people and upon her own morbid mind to show the darker side.

  In her free time, she enjoys scuba diving, dancing, wine, food, and reading. She lives outside of Baltimore, Maryland, with two very spoiled cats. www.cathywiley.com

  HALLOWEEN

  PREMONITION, by Art Taylor

  In the dream, you wander down an endless hallway in a loose nightgown, glancing in door after door, looking for something, looking out for something. Or someone. Your hand clutches a slip of paper, so tightly that your fingernails cut your palm, and on the paper, you can make out a string of blotted numbers.

  With a start, you open your eyes and see the clock flash out the time, 2:43 a.m., but you don’t hesitate. You throw back the covers of your bed and scramble up to sit on your pillow, the nightgown bunching at your hips. You flick on the light, you grab the phone, you dial the numbers from your dream carefully, one digit at a time. You have indeed been clenching your fist in your sleep, a nail has broken, and the indentations in your palm shine fiery red—blood? No, no, just flecks of polish. Your breath, heavy and wild at the first ring, deepens with the second and the third. Just a dream, you think after the fourth ring has steadied your panting, and you start to hang up. After all, what should I say to…whoever answers? A nightmare—something terrible—worry, fear, panic.… Then: Overreaction. Stupidity. But before you can replace the receiver, you hear a scrambling on the other end of the line. With another glimpse at the clock—2:45—you ready your apology.

  “Oh, help me, help me,” comes a weak voice, struggling and desperate. “Oh, please, whoever you are, wherever you are, he’s—” and the line goes dead.

  A cold terror cuts up your spine. Your thoughts race frantically, but your body, for the moment, is paralyzed. Your hand trembles as you struggle to get a new dial tone, and you fumble twice before hitting the right keys.

  “9-1-1, what’s your—”

  “Oh, please help,” you cry. “I’ve had a nightmare and when I woke—”

  With a start—

  You wake.

  The covers of the bed are still pulled tight again
st your chin. The lights of the room are still off. On your nightstand, the clock shows 1:28, and by the glowing redness of those numbers, you see the edges of your phone, the receiver still in place. Thin moonbeams pierce through the gap between your curtains, and your cat, curled into a ball at the end of your bed, stretches in the dappled glow. Something about her calms you. Your breath steadies. Your pulse slows. You glance around the rest of the room to see the reflection of the moonlight in the mirror over your dresser and, in the corner, the outline of your chair.

  And suddenly your breath is gone again.

  Someone’s sitting there—watching you. Waiting.

  You see his pale arm in the moonlight, then the shadow of his other arm hanging motionless from a thin torso. Him.

  You barely manage to keep yourself from crying out. You wonder if you can grab the baseball bat just on the other side of your nightstand. You wish you’d taken your father’s advice and gotten a gun. Then you remember the blouse you’d laid out for tomorrow. As your eyes focus, the wooziness of sleep finally falling away, you realize that’s all it is, hanging limp across the back of the chair.

  Overreaction. Stupidity. Your nerves are just on edge. The nightmare, the darkness…and this night itself, of course. Halloween, for Christ’s sake. That parade of ghosts and ghouls darting door to door earlier in the evening had gotten to you. And nothing but horror movies on the TV before you went to bed. A chill wind has been rustling and scattering the leaves all night. And then there’s that moon looming above the oaks in the yard.

  But you’d thought him.

  And who was the him you thought might be sitting there watching you?

  Your brother maybe? Drunk again, and stopping by after the bars just to chat, passing out in your chair? It’s happened before. Or your ex-boyfriend, still carrying the torch, persistent with his calls and emails and now pushing the boundaries a step too far? You’d always wondered if he’d made a duplicate key. Or were you thinking of…