Sheriff Mables nodded. “I’m keeping his murder under lock and key for now,” he explained. “I don’t see no sense in causing a panic.”
Mitchell rubbed his chin. “If Mr. Walsh is trying to contact you, that means he’s found out about the murder…somehow.” Mitchell closed his eyes and thought back to the mysterious woman in black. “I know I heard her voice somewhere before,” he whispered to himself and began searching his memory.
Sheriff Mables lit half of his broken cigar and shoved the other half back into his pocket. “Detective, no one knows Monroe Baker is dead except for the people in this room and Dr. Johnson. And trust me when I say this: Dr. Johnson barely lets two words a day slip out of his mouth. You couldn’t write an entire sentence from the words that man has spoken in his sixty-eight years of life.”
Mary watched Sheriff Mables puff on his cigar and then take a sip of coffee. It was obvious the poor man was exhausted and needed rest. “Mitchell, someone had to have contacted Mr. Walsh. My question is: Why?”
“The killer contacted Mr. Walsh,” Mitchell told Mary.
“But why?” Mary asked again. “Why would that awful woman call the president of F&P Studios and report Monroe Baker’s death to Mr. Walsh? Why would—” Mary stopped talking as her mind slid into home plate after running around three confusing bases. “Oh my goodness, that woman must know Mr. Walsh, right?” she gasped.
Mitchell stood silent for a few seconds. “It’s possible,” he finally spoke. “Sheriff, the killer ambushed us last night.”
“What?” Sheriff Mables looked at Mary. “Mary?”
“We heard what we thought was a woman crying for help from inside a crushed car. When we reached the car, the woman who killed Monroe Baker appeared with a gun.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Sheriff Mables demanded.
“What could you have done, Sheriff?” Mary asked. “We didn’t even see the woman’s face.”
“She was wearing a black hood,” Mitchell explained, still searching his memory. “This woman is after a photo, Sheriff. She believes that Monroe Baker gave Mary the photo she’s after. We have until tonight to produce the photo. If we fail to do so, our loose tiger threatened to kill Mary’s dear friend and afterward begin killing at random.”
“If apples ain’t red.” Sheriff Mables shook his head. He grabbed his coffee and took some down. “You don’t have the photo this woman is searching for?”
“No,” Mary said. “I tried to tell her that, but she wouldn’t listen.” Mary picked up her coffee. “Mitchell and I spent a good portion of the night trying to develop a plan but so far we’re still stuck on square one. We don’t even know where this woman wants to meet tonight. She has the upper hand, Sheriff.”
“Our loose tiger isn’t going to walk into a trap, either,” Mitchell pointed out. He focused back on Mr. Walsh. “I’ll call Mr. Walsh and see what he wants, Sheriff. Mary, may I use your upstairs telephone?”
“Of course,” Mary said.
Mitchell took Mary’s and Sheriff Mables’ plates to the kitchen table, set them down, and left the kitchen.
“This breakfast looks very good,” Sheriff Mables told Mary.
“Wait till you taste it. I told you, Detective Burbank is a wonderful cook.”
Sheriff Mables quickly doused his cigar, grabbed a fork, and began to gobble down the food.
“My, you are hungry,” Mary said.
“Starving,” Sheriff Mables admitted, pushing pancakes into his mouth. “I wish you would have come to me last night, Mary. We don’t need to keep secrets from one another.” Sheriff Mables pointed his fork at the kitchen doorway. “I’m not sure of Detective Burbank, either.”
“Mitchell is a good man, Sheriff. He’s on our side,” Mary assured Sheriff Mables. “John taught me how to see a person’s heart.”
Sheriff Mables locked eyes with Mary for a few seconds and then smiled. “If you say he’s good enough, then he’s good enough,” he told Mary and went back to eating.
Mary ate her breakfast and sipped on her coffee while she waited for Mitchell to return. She walked her mind back to the conversation she had with the killer. “Who are you?” she whispered. The only answer she received was the sound of a hungry man eating breakfast.
Mitchell walked downstairs with a Lucky Strike in his right hand. He slowly made his way back into the kitchen, where Mary and Sheriff Mables were waiting for him.
“Did you speak to Mr. Walsh?” Mary asked.
“Yes, I did,” Mitchell replied in a careful voice. “May I sit down?”
“Please,” Mary replied.
Sheriff Mables studied Mitchell’s eyes. “Your conversation with Mr. Walsh veered into a dark alley, didn’t it?” he asked.
Mitchell sat down next to Sheriff Mables and worked on his cigarette. “I have just been handed a live grenade,” he explained.
“A live grenade?” Mary asked, puzzled.
“Mr. Walsh informed me that he called the mayor and demanded I be taken off this case,” Mitchell explained. “I woke my boss up at his home and he informed me that I was being taken off the case due to pressure coming from City Hall.”
“Oh, Mitchell, that’s horrible,” Mary said.
“That’s politics,” Mitchell responded. He pointed his eyes at Sheriff Mables. “Sheriff, can you see to it that the body of Monroe Baker is put on the first train and shipped back to Los Angeles?”
“How morbid,” Mary gasped.
“I’m not sending the body anywhere,” Sheriff Mables told Mitchell.
“Good, I was hoping you would say that. That puts me in the clear concerning that bit of business,” Mitchell said. He worked on his cigarette for a minute. “Mary, Sheriff, our mystery woman called Mr. Walsh. I’m sure of that. I’m also sure she wants the body of Monroe Baker. She’s a very disturbed woman. But for now, let’s focus on Mr. Walsh. If the woman in question called him that means one of two things: She has some kind of power over him, or—”
“Or two,” Mary added, “Mr. Walsh has a very mentally ill relative, probably a daughter.”
Mitchell nodded his head. “I’ll take door number two, ma’am.”
Sheriff Mables wasn’t certain what to say or even think. “None of this makes a lick of sense,” he told Mitchell. “I thought the studios wanted you to find Bridget Carson’s murderer. Why would this Mr. Walsh fella demand you be removed from the case? Why now?”
“Because the woman in question has become desperate,” Mitchell explained. “So desperate that she’s poking her face out of the shadows just enough to ask for help from a powerful man who may or may not be her father. My gut instinct is telling me that Mr. Walsh is the father of our missing killer. However,” Mitchell emphasized, “Mr. Walsh must have just recently learned the horrible truth.”
“If apples ain’t red,” Sheriff Mables said and went for his cigar. “So what steps do you suggest we take, Detective?”
“I’ve been removed from the case and ordered back to Los Angeles on the first train,” Mitchell told Sheriff Mables. “Which means I’ll be leaving the killer free to terrorize your town and the people in it until she gets exactly what she wants.”
“But she’ll never get the photo she’s searching for because we don’t have it,” Mary exclaimed.
“I know,” Mitchell told Mary. He finished off his cigarette and put it out in a tin ashtray sitting on the table. “Our only option is to find the missing photo or trap a very deadly killer.”
“Mitchell, that woman isn’t going to let herself become trapped in a corner,” Mary pointed out.
“I have until the day after tomorrow to catch her and—”
Without warning, a brick crashed through the kitchen window, cutting Mitchell off in mid-sentence. Sheriff Mables jumped to his feet, yanked out his gun, and ran to the broken window. Mitchell joined him. “All I see are woods,” Mitchell said.
“Me, too,” Sheriff Mables said, stopping his eyes at the wood line resting at the end of the backyard. He put his gun
away, bent down, and picked up the brick. “Here, there’s a note,” he said and handed the brick to Mitchell.
Mitchell held up the brick and looked at the piece of paper wrapped around it. He unwrapped the note and read it aloud: “‘Bring the photo back to Los Angeles and I’ll leave Pineville. Refuse and I’ll start killing by nightfall. Bring Mary Holland. I’ll call you in one hour.’” Mitchell lowered the note. “Well, Mary, it looks like you and I are going to take a trip.”
“Mr. Walsh has you removed from the case and now the woman is demanding you return back to Los Angeles with the photo,” Mary said in a worried voice. “We’re walking into a trap.”
“We’re not dealing with a rookie,” Mitchell agreed. “I was worried our mystery woman might realize the chance she would be taking by trying to acquire the photo in Pineville. Now she’s returning back to her stomping grounds where she feels safe and confident.”
“I won’t let you leave,” Sheriff Mables told Mary. “John would—”
“I have to go, Sheriff,” Mary said in a desperate voice. “This woman…whoever she is…will honor her word and begin killing innocent people if I don’t.” Mary stood up, refilled her coffee cup, and looked around her kitchen. “The talent show is cancelled, my town is damaged from a tornado…the newspaper isn’t going to be putting out papers for at least two or three days.” Mary sipped at her coffee. “My crew can run the paper without me. The town can clean up without me. And as I said, there is no more talent show. There isn’t anything holding me in town, Sheriff. I have to go to Los Angeles. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.”
Sheriff Mables blew out a breath. “Okay, Mary, you’re a grown woman,” he said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you not to go. If John were home, he would chain you to the back porch.”
Mitchell studied the note as Mary and Sheriff Mables debated back and forth. “The handwriting on this note matches the handwriting on the fake suicide note,” he said.
“What?” Sheriff Mables asked.
“The handwriting on this note,” Mitchell repeated, “matches the handwriting on Bridget Carson’s fake suicide note. I think our killer just made a very grave mistake.” Mitchell placed the note into his right pocket. “Mary, you need to go upstairs and pack. We’ll need to be on the next train.”
Mary nodded. “I’ll go upstairs and pack right now.”
Sheriff Mables walked over to the back door. “Detective, do you really think this woman wants the body of Monroe Baker?” he asked, feeling a cold chill walk down his spine.
“The woman we’re dealing with is mentally disturbed, Sheriff.”
“Sick is more like it,” Sheriff Mables said. He opened the back door, looking back at Mary with worried eyes. “Mary, I think of you as my own daughter,” he said. “I can’t stop you from going to Los Angeles, and I do understand your reasons, but I sure wish you would stay home.”
Mary walked over to Sheriff Mables and hugged him. “Don’t tell Betty, okay, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Mables sighed, hugged Mary back, and left. Mary closed the back door after him.
“Are you okay?” Mitchell asked.
“Very confused,” Mary confessed. “This entire mess is all my fault. Why did I have to suggest Monroe Baker to Betty? If I had only kept my big mouth shut.”
Mitchell worked another Lucky Strike out from his pocket. “Mary, blaming yourself will only worsen matters. When we arrive in Los Angeles I’m going to need you to be as sharp as a kitchen knife.” Mitchell lit the Lucky Strike with a match. “This woman we’re playing chess with isn’t stupid, Mary. She’s luring us back to her den.”
“But why me?” Mary asked.
“Jealousy,” Mitchell explained. “She’s jealous of anyone Monroe Baker had contact with. And Mary, she intends to kill you.”
Mary felt her flesh turn cold. “Yes, I know,” she said, hugging her arms. “I’ll go upstairs and pack and then wait for the phone call.”
Mary excused herself and walked upstairs to her large and lovely bedroom. She sat down on a comfortable blue sitting chair, put her hands over her face, and began to think about her husband. “Oh, John, I wish you were home. I’m trapped in another mess. First, it was that awful Agent Vince Green, and now it’s this woman in black.” Mary saw the face of her husband appear in her mind. She saw him sitting in the cockpit of a B-17 Flying Fortress flying high over Europe preparing to drop bombs on the enemy. She saw courage and boldness in his eyes—determination and grit. John Holland was not a coward and never backed down from a challenge. He always upheld the truth and fought for justice. “Okay, honey, I’ll go fly my mission. I just pray we both return home safely.”
One hour later, Mary heard the upstairs telephone ring. She rushed out into a long hallway lined with a lush burgundy carpet and hurried to the phone just as Mitchell appeared at the top of the stairs. “Answer the call,” he told Mary in a calm voice.
Mary drew in a deep breath and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Yes or no, that’s all you need to say,” the killer told Mary in a firm voice.
“Yes.”
“When you arrive go directly to the mansion. I’ll be in touch,” she ordered Mary and ended the call.
Mary put down the phone. “We’re to go to Monroe Baker’s mansion when we arrive in Los Angeles and—” The telephone rang again. Mary carefully answered the call, expecting to hear the killer’s voice. “Hello.”
“Who were you talking to?” Heather Norton demanded. “And where is Monroe Baker? I went to the hotel to check on him and that mean Mr. Wyman refused to let me go up to his room. Mary, I want answers. Now, who was that woman that you just spoke to? Was she Monroe’s wife?”
“No…no,” Mary told Heather in a voice that came out far too annoyed. “Heather, I wish you wouldn’t listen in on my phone calls. Now…leave me alone.” Mary hung up the phone. “Oh dear,” she said, “I…oh, Heather, I’m sorry.” Mary snatched up the phone. “Heather…Heather? Hello…”
“I’m here,” Heather told Mary in a hurt voice.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so rude. Please forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” Heather promised. “Now, tell me what’s happening, Mary Holland. Please. Is Monroe in danger?”
“Honey, the talent show is cancelled and…Monroe is…he…he’s going back to Los Angeles,” Mary said without actually lying. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“I never even had the chance to speak to him.” Heather sighed miserably. “Oh well. I guess I better go back to work. Phone lines are down in a lot of places and I’m trying to connect a lot of worried folks to their loved ones.”
“I understand, honey. I’ll talk to you later,” Mary said and put down the phone. She looked at Mitchell with worried eyes. “Mitchell, we’re walking directly into a trap.”
Mitchell walked Mary back downstairs to the kitchen and poured her a cup of coffee. “Mary, Mr. Walsh is involved now, which means that this woman is going to have some power under her belt.” Mitchell sat down across from Mary. “Mr. Walsh controls City Hall with his money. The studios decide who is mayor and who isn’t. When I arrive home, I’m going to be put on a very short leash and most likely assigned to cases that have been sitting dead for years. I don’t think our loose tiger will try and kill me, because killing a cop doesn’t sit well with the press. But I do believe she will try and kill you and maybe even try to frame me for your murder.”
“Frame you for my murder?” Mary’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.
Mitchell stared at the back door. “Whoever this woman is, she’s out to kill two birds with one stone,” he told Mary. “If this woman is the daughter of Mr. Walsh, then he’s going to help her accomplish killing you and getting rid of me.”
Mary grew silent and sipped her coffee. As she did, Betty knocked on the back door, opened it, and stormed into the kitchen. “I ran into Sheriff Mables. He said you’re going to leave me and travel to Los Angeles,”
she exclaimed and nearly fainted. Mitchell caught her before she did. “Mary, you can’t leave me.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Mary told Betty. “While I was upstairs packing I decided it would be very wise to take you to Los Angeles with me. After all, honey, we’re a team.”
Betty stared at her. “Mary, I can’t leave Mother and travel all the way across the country to Los Angeles. Why, a city that big would scare me to pieces,” she fretted.
“Honey, we don’t have a choice.” Mary patted the kitchen table. “Sit down and I’ll give you the scoop. Mitchell, please pour Betty a cup of coffee.”
Betty nervously sat down next to Mary and listened to her best friend pick up from where Betty left the hotel to go check on her mother. By the time Mary finished speaking, Betty had worked through three cups of coffee and was as jumpy as a cat trapped in a room full of hungry dogs. “Kill me…” she whispered in a frightened voice. “Oh, my.”
“Not just you,” Mary pointed out. “Other people…at random. Betty, honey, this woman already killed twice, and I know she’s capable of killing again. We have to travel to Los Angeles.”
“But what can we do?” Betty begged Mary. “What do we know about Los Angeles?” Betty stood up and walked to the back door. “Mary, we’ll end up getting lost and wind up in Mexico.”
Mary felt a grin touch her lips. “Oh, honey, we won’t end up in Mexico.”
Mitchell fought back a smile. He was becoming very fond of Betty. “Betty, we fully understand the risks,” he said, “but we have no other choice. There is a killer on the loose and unless we play by her rules, for now, people will die. I’m afraid our hands are tied behind our backs at the moment.”
Betty turned and stared at Mitchell. “Well…if we have to go to Los Angeles, we have to go…but let me warn you: I get sick on long train rides. So don’t blame me if I ruin your suit.” Betty marched back to the kitchen table and sat down. “Mary, honey, I haven’t eaten a thing all morning. May I have something to eat?”
“I’ll cook you breakfast,” Mitchell said in a pleasant voice. “A hero needs her energy.”
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