by Carr, Lauren
Archie offered to lend him some of hers. Still, he wondered who would break into a house loaded with antiques and artwork from all over the world only to steal butter and bacon. He suspected the stalker wanted for killing his neighbor.
Two days later, Mac was still puzzling over the missing food when Archie helped him interview prospective housekeepers and cooks.
One applicant in a form-fitting dress indicated to Mac that she was more interested in a position as his trophy wife than his housekeeper. Archie crossed her name off their list before she sashayed out the door. Another was polite enough, but her satanic tattoos, body piercings, and probing questions about dead bodies the former detective had seen in the line of duty made Mac nervous. Another applicant discovered that she was allergic to dogs. Minutes into the interview, she ran from the house with red, swollen eyes, a runny nose, and hives. The other two applicants were inexperienced in either cooking or housekeeping.
The last applicant was scheduled for mid-afternoon. With the break between interviews, Archie prepared chicken sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea, which they ate on the lower deck by the water’s edge. In the warm days leading into summer, their neighbors were enjoying a variety of water sports in the cove.
Archie referred to her notes after swallowing the last bite of her sandwich. “Cathy Miller comes very highly recommended. She’s in her fifties. She had both cooked and cleaned for the Steinbecks for fifteen years. Robin used to know them. They have a big horse farm in Fairmont.”
“Why doesn’t she work for them now?” Mac refilled their glasses with iced tea.
“She had to quit when her father became ill. By the time he died, the Steinbecks had already replaced her.”
“Where’s Gnarly?” Mac realized he hadn’t seen his dog since breakfast when he’d stolen Mac’s frozen waffles. Recalling that his new dog had been the cause of a civil suit against Katrina Singleton, he wondered what antics Gnarly pulled when he wasn’t home.
“He’s probably casing a cookout.” Archie stacked their paper plates. “Would you believe Easter weekend he came home with a T-bone steak? He stole it off the Taylors’ grill.”
Spencer Court ran the length of the peninsula before curving onto a bridge that crossed the cove to intersect with Spencer Road, which zigzagged to the top of the mountain. A handful of luxury homes resided on the lakeshore across the cove.
A stone and log showplace rested directly across from Spencer Manor. Across the water between them, Mac spied an in-ground pool, in addition to tennis courts and an elaborate garden. A woman with long dark hair sunned herself by the pool. In spite of the distance, he could see that she had a perfect figure.
“That’s Sophia Hainsworth,” Archie said when she saw him peering across the cove.
Mac felt like he should recognize the name.
“Her married name is Sophia Hainsworth-Turner. She’s been in a lot of televisions shows and a half-dozen movies—a couple of them halfway good. She’s married to Travis Turner.”
“Now that name is familiar,” Mac said. “I’ve read a couple of his novels. They’re mysteries, too.”
“Robin discovered him,” Archie said. “He was born and raised here in Spencer. He went off to Hollywood to be a movie star. A few years later, he called Robin and told her that he had decided to try his hand at writing and asked if she’d read his book. It was excellent. The only thing she suggested was changing the outcome for one of the characters and the title. She introduced him to her agent and Travis Turner became a household name.”
“His books aren’t as good as Robin’s.”
“Spoken like a loyal son.”
Mac asked, “Why’s a famous novelist bringing his movie star wife here for the season instead of the Hamptons? Deep Creek isn’t particularly known for being the in place for the Hollywood set.”
“Usually they do travel with the Hollywood A-list, but Travis is basing his next book on Katrina’s murder.”
Beyond the Turner home and up toward the mountaintop, the Spencer Inn was a part of Mac’s inheritance that he had yet to investigate. The manager, Jeff Ingle, had invited him to inspect the hotel. Frankly, the notion of owning a five-star hotel and restaurant intimidated him.
Two docks up the cove, Mac spied a couple he had identified as the Hardwicks. They eyed him and Archie through thick black cat-eyed glasses while sipping wine under a deck umbrella. Equally short and round in shape, they were dressed in identical black trousers and white button-down shirts.
Archie whispered, “Do you see them?”
“David told me that they had filed a paternity suit against the Singletons on behalf of their poodle.”
“They’ve complained to the police more than once about Gnarly’s barking. If it weren’t for David we’d be having a lot more trouble with them than we do.” She shook her head slightly. “It’s only a matter of time before you get a call from Ed saying that you’re being sued for some cockamamie mental stress over Gnarly.”
“And I thought that life would be a breeze if I was rich.”
“Welcome to the world of the rich and famous, Mr. Faraday. One day about three years ago, the Hardwicks were a couple of middle class nit-picks having lunch at a five-star DC restaurant when the server tripped over a briefcase left out in the aisle. She spilled Gordon Hardwick’s coffee in his lap. He got burnt, and—Wham! A jury gave them the ticket to the Point. Not only did they win one, but two lawsuits. Prissy Hardwick filed a separate one claiming that, due to the burn to her husband’s family jewels, she suffered mental distress because he was unable to perform his husbandly duty.” She leaned over to tell him, “Guess who the idiot—or maybe he wasn’t such an idiot—was who left the briefcase out where the server could trip over it.”
“Gordon Hardwick,” Mac concluded.
Archie nodded her head. “That coffee stunt got them their early retirement. But two point five million only lasts so long when you have money going out and not much coming in. They’ve been looking for another million-dollar award to keep them in the lifestyle to which they’ve become accustomed. Watch your step around them.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Mac checked his watch. The next applicant wasn’t due to arrive for another fifteen minutes.
From their table at the water’s edge, he could see over the stone wall up to the Singleton home, where three months earlier its resident had been murdered. “I read about Katrina’s murder in Robin’s journal.” Mac asked, “Can you tell me what happened, from your point of view?”
Archie smiled. “David and I made a bet about how long it would take you to ask for specific details about the case. I bet within one day. He said you’d play it cool and wait.” She flashed him a mock frown. “I lose. Katrina was thirty when she married Niles Holt. They moved in two years ago this month. They had lived out here less than three months when Niles Holt was murdered. Katrina went back to the city after Labor Day, and returned in June with a new husband. Eight months later, she’s dead.”
After pausing to allow Mac to store away that information, she added, “Chad Singleton stayed only a couple weeks before he went back to the city. Within a week or so after he left, we started seeing this bizarre character following her around. Katrina told David that he was a disgruntled client who started his terror campaign in the city before she moved here.”
“Where was husband number two while all this was going on?”
“We saw more of her stalker than we saw of him,” Archie answered. “It was weird considering that they were newlyweds. Katrina had long dark hair down to her waist and a body that wouldn’t quit. She had these exotic green eyes. After the snow storm, Chad called the police because she wouldn’t answer the phone. David went to check on her and found her body. Gnarly was behind a flower pot on the patio. He didn’t get buried under the two feet of snow. Otherwise, he would have suffocated or frozen to death. David threw him in the back of his cruiser and took him to the vet.”
“Did the police try putting the Sing
leton place under surveillance to catch her stalker before he killed her?”
“Sure, but nothing happened. When they would quit, Pay Back would show up again.” She said, “I suspected husband number two. Chad would have known when she was under surveillance. Did you ever see Gaslight? The husband was trying to drive his wife crazy for her money. Chad certainly didn’t waste any time quitting his job and remarrying after Katrina died.”
Mac agreed. “That is suspicious.”
“Are you going to continue investigating this case?”
“I’m retired,” Mac reminded her. “I now have a career as a millionaire playboy.”
Archie grinned. “I can’t see you spending your days playing golf and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous any more than your mother.”
“Mr. Faraday?” A woman with long straight salt-and-pepper hair tied into a ponytail at the back of her neck waved to them from the corner of the upper deck.
Archie checked the name in her notes before replying. “Mrs. Miller?”
“That would be me.” The chunky older woman began a slow descent down the steps to the lower deck.
Seeing the job applicant hobbling toward them, Mac stood up. “No, don’t bother coming down. We’re coming up.” He whispered to Archie, who was gathering the plates and glasses. “Do you have the list of questions for us to ask her?”
After assuring him that she did, she noted, “I don’t see any body piercings and I doubt if she’s applying to be your trophy wife.”
“So far, so good.”
The interview went close to an hour, but within fifteen minutes Mac glanced at Archie. Cathy Miller met all of his requirements. She was experienced in everything he needed to run the big house. He saw agreement in Archie’s eyes.
“By the way,” Archie said to Mrs. Miller, “Mr. Faraday has a dog. He’s a big German shepherd.”
Mac interjected, “He’s very mischievous.”
“Oh, I love dogs.” The housekeeper went on to tell one long, drawn out story after another about the various dogs she had encountered in her life, from the dog that had been run over by a school bus when she was a young girl to the dog that she raised from a pup for the Steinbeck family, but had to leave behind when her father became ill. When she began her fifth story, Archie interrupted her in mid-sentence with the suggestion that they show her the house.
Mrs. Miller took this as a sign that she had the job. Mac could see that Archie had made her decision also. In every room, Mrs. Miller delayed them with stories from her life.
This woman is going to drive me up the walls. Mac rubbed his aching temples when they returned to the living room. How am I going to get out of this?
“Oh, is that your dog?” Mrs. Miller pointed out the doors to the deck where Gnarly was chewing on a dark-colored round object covered with a stringy substance.
“He must have found some kid’s soccer ball in the lake.” Archie stepped to the door to take a closer look.
“What’s he pulling off it?” Mac asked.
“Seaweed?” Archie suggested.
The housekeeper stood between them to peer at the dog and his treasure. “Odd shape for a ball.”
“That’s no ball,” Mac breathed in a low voice while he opened the door.
Grasping the object with one hand, he stopped Gnarly when he tried to carry it inside. It felt slimy to his touch. Two empty eye sockets peered up at him. Mac announced, “That’s not seaweed. It’s hair.” Becoming entwined around his fingers, the slimy strands came loose from the skull.
“It’s a head!” Archie shrieked.
Mrs. Miller screamed and continued to scream. Too shocked to form words—Mac guessed it was probably the first time in her life—she uttered one continuous screech while grabbing her purse and running from the house to her car to peel out of the driveway.
“I guess I should cross Mrs. Miller off our list,” Archie moaned.
“I guess so.” Mac agreed while suppressing a smile.
Chapter Three
“Until the ME tells us otherwise, we can assume this is the COD.” Mac pointed out a small hole above the ear on the side of the head.
“Shot on the left side of the head. Looks like a big caliber.” With a latex-gloved hand, David O’Callaghan pointed at a larger hole on the other side of the head. “The bullet went through and came out the other side.”
Sitting perfectly like a contestant in a dog show, Gnarly watched them and Archie through the French doors. After taking his new toy from him, Mac had set the head on a garbage bag out on the deck. David was the first police officer to arrive.
“Who is it?” Archie asked.
Mac inquired if the head fit the description of any missing persons.
David turned it over. Some long hair hung from bits of scalp. Its eyes and ears were missing due to decomposition or predators. “I can’t even tell if it’s a man or woman.” He looked up at them. “Where’s the rest of the body?”
“You’ve got me,” Mac said. “The head is all Gnarly brought back.” He quipped, “I guess the body was too heavy for him to carry.”
“Where’s he been?”
“I have no idea. He’s been gone most of the day.”
Archie suggested, “Could it have washed up from the lake? Maybe the rest of the body is at the bottom.”
Both Mac and David shook their heads.
“Bodies that have been in the water don’t look like this,” David said. “The body has to be on land.” He spread out the hair with his pen. “Look at this.”
Mac and Archie leaned over on their haunches to examine the hair. A black powdery substance covered the strands.
“Do you know what that is?” Mac asked.
“Sure do,” David answered. “It’s coal dust.”
Before he could say more, Gnarly let out a howl followed by non-stop snarling barks.
Four men rounded the corner of the house. Three of them wore police uniforms similar to David’s.
Wearing a red sweater over a white turtleneck and slacks, the fourth visitor sauntered over to the dismembered head like it was a new game introduced at a neighborhood party. “Hey, O’Callaghan, what’ve you got?”
David rose to his feet.
“Mr. Faraday?” One of the officers, whose insignias designated that he was in charge, stuck out his hand. “I’m Police Chief Roy Phillips.” His uniform hanging on his boney frame, Chief Phillips reminded Mac of Barney Fife on The Andy Griffith Show. He could see bald spots on the scalp through his thin, dirty-blond hair.
After giving Mac’s hand a limp shake, the police chief gestured at the visitor in the red sweater. “This is Travis Turner, the famous novelist. He’s researching Katrina Singleton’s case for a book.” He glanced at the object on the deck. “We understand you found a head without a body attached.”
His dark eyes peering at Mac, Travis firmly shook Mac’s hand. Mac noted that, with his broad chest and shoulders, the author’s flashy good looks would turn any head when he entered a room. In contrast, he recalled that when he had met Robin Spencer, she had reminded him of his third grade Sunday School teacher.
“We’re neighbors,” Travis told him with a gesture at the estate across the cove. “I heard the call about the head on the scanner. After everything that’s been going on this past year, I thought I’d better see it for myself. Who found it?”
“Isn’t it against police policy to allow civilians access to secured crime scenes?” Mac asked David.
Before the officer could respond, Travis said, “I’ve researched hundreds of murder cases during my career. You may have read some of my books. My first, A Death in Manhattan, won the Pulitzer.”
“Where I come from, that still wouldn’t warrant granting you access to a crime scene,” Mac argued. “A defense attorney would have all the evidence collected here thrown out of court like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Chief Roy Phillips declared, “Well, we’re a small town here—rich—but small, and we welcome any help
, especially from someone of Mr. Turner’s caliber. Now, who found the head?”
“My dog did.” Mac gestured in the direction of Gnarly, who was pressed up against the doors in his effort to get out at them. The German shepherd had been barking so hard that the window was covered with dog drool. “I don’t know where the rest of the body is.”
“Will somebody shut that dog up?” Chief Phillips yelled before kneeling next to his two subordinates to examine the head. While the chief had been talking to Mac, they had been photographing and collecting evidence from the head.
Excusing herself, Archie squeezed through the doors in order to keep Gnarly from charging out while she went in. Mac saw her lead him by his collar in the direction of the entertainment room downstairs.
“Ah, give him a break, chief.” Travis smiled to display a wide mouth filled with straight teeth. They appeared bright white against his dark tan. “Lee Dorcas killed his mistress and beat him half to death.”
Standing over the head while looking down at it, Chief Phillips asked, “What do you think, Turner?” He brought the end of his thumb up to his mouth. Mac winced when he saw he had bitten each of his fingernails down to the quick until they were raw.
“Dorcas didn’t disappear off the face of the earth like we thought. The psycho offed himself,” Travis said.
“Dorcas?” David repeated the name. “We don’t know for sure that this is Lee Dorcas.”
“He was reported missing a few days before he killed Katrina,” Travis said.
“We still don’t have any real evidence to prove that,” David argued.
The writer said, “You put out an APB and no one has seen him. Why else would he disappear if he wasn’t guilty of something? Like murder?”
“What about the petty thefts?”
“What petty thefts?” The theft of his butter and bacon quickly came to Mac’s mind.