Butterscotch Dream Killer

by Summer Prescott

  “I believe that the primary suspect canned her own tomatoes,” Tim mused.

  “Which means that she would know,” Fiona nodded. “Want me to get Detective Tall, Dark and Handsome on the phone?”

  “I think that would be best,” Tim agreed, ignoring her irreverent reference to Chas Beckett.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  * * *

  Echo had never felt more alone in her life. Missy had gone off to Arizona to search for little Kaylee, and she hadn’t heard a word from Spencer. She paced the confines of her home with Jasmine clutched protectively to her bosom, waiting and worrying.

  **

  Kel was getting desperate. The light in the small aircraft had dimmed as the sun moved across the sky. If night fell before he got help, he could very well be trapped in a frozen tomb. He had to get out, find a safe place where he could make a fire with the materials that he’d found in the plane.

  In the survival kit, there were two handheld flares. Kel didn’t know much about flares, other than the fact that there were two kinds of handhelds – one which created huge plumes of colored smoke, the other which gave off brilliant, blinding sparks of light. He had to get the door open to escape the plane, but the door was frozen shut. If the flares in the bag were the correct type, he might be able to use one to heat the door enough so that he could open it with his one good arm. If the flares were the wrong kind, he’d suffocate in the smoke before he even had a chance to open the door. He stared at the two dangerous-looking sticks, knowing that he had to take his chances, or die. Taking his cell phone, which barely had any battery left, out of his pocket, he recorded a video for Echo, Jasmine and Scott, letting them know how much he loved them…just in case.

  Kel held the red tube in his hand gingerly, sitting on the floor of the plane, between the first row of seats. He’d taken pain relievers that were in the first aid kit, but unfortunately they hadn’t done much more than take the edge off of the pain in his arm. Placing the flare between his knees, he twisted off the end cap that had the strike surface on it, and placed it between his feet.

  He scooted forward, so that he was sitting beside the exit door, and when he’d positioned himself just right, he took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “If I light this, and it’s a smoke flare, I’ll have to throw myself on it to try to douse it. If I fail, I’ll die,” he whispered hoarsely. “If it’s a sparking flare, I’ll have ten minutes to unfreeze the door, and that’s if the fumes from it don’t suffocate me.”

  Muttering an expletive, he glanced at the flare, then at the door, then back again. Bracing himself, he scraped the exposed end of the flare against the abrasive cap, and…nothing.

  “It’s a dud,” he whispered, his heart pounding.

  Then, for the first time in a long time, Phillip “Kel” Kellerman got mad. White-hot anger coursed through his veins as he considered his fate. He had to get out of this plane, and if this stupid flare didn’t work, he’d have to figure something else out. Failure was not an option. With a harsh grimace creasing his face, he made sure that the abrasive cap was wedged firmly in place between his feet, raised the flare in the air, and brought it down, scraping it firmly across the surface of the abrasive cape. It roared into life with a shower of sparks, and if his arm didn’t hurt so much, Kel would’ve shouted in triumph.

  The fumes billowing out of the inflamed tube were profound, and he couldn’t move his scarf over his nose and mouth, because he had to hold the makeshift torch near the door. The heat coming off of the device became nearly unbearable, but Kel waved it around the frame of the exit anyway. When he started to choke from the fumes, his nostrils and throat on fire, he realized that it was do or die.

  He stood carefully, dropping the flare onto the floor at the base of the door. He again pulled the handle down and when he pushed upward with his shoulder this time, it didn’t open, but he heard a cracking sound. His legs shaking with the effort, lungs filling with toxic air, he knew that he had one last chance to survive. He crouched, preparing for his last attempt.

  “Echooooooo!” he roared, shooting to his feet and pushing upward with all of his might.

  The door gave way, popping open with a metallic screech, and Kel collapsed beside the flare, nearly burning himself. Grabbing it by the end, he held it up toward the door, where a frigid breeze had begun seeping into the plane. He wanted to keep it for as long as he could, thinking that he could potentially use it to start a fire. Edging slowly over to look out the door, he saw that the plane had indeed been caught in a stand of trees, but the good news was that it hung only a few feet from the ground.

  He’d packed his coat pockets, inside and out, with food and first aid supplies, including the bottle of pain relievers, so now all he had to do was figure out how to get down from the plane…and where to go once he did. He wrapped the blankets and sleeping bag around his shoulders, and the exertion from opening the door was causing him to feel as though he was burning up under all the layers of protective fabric.

  Sitting in the doorway of the plane, his now-discarded flare no longer lit, Kel braced himself with his left hand on the doorframe and lowered his foot to a thick branch. Testing his weight a bit by pushing with his foot, he was thrilled to see that the branch held up well. No matter how he sliced it, getting out of this plane was going to be a painful ordeal. He had one working hand, and it looked like there was at least a four foot drop below him.

  He brought his other foot to the branch, reached with his left hand for a branch in front of him, and stepped out, balancing both feet on the branch below him, his heart pounding in fear.

  “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Almost there.”

  Grabbing onto the trunk of the tree, he lowered his bottom down to the branch where his feet had rested, and sat for a moment, catching his breath and trying to slow his heartbeat. Leaning forward, he secured a handhold on a lower branch and scooted his foot down to where he could just barely touch his toes to another branch, which looked to be about two feet off of the ground. If he could stand on that branch, he’d be able to jump from there to the snow without too much jarring. He scooted forward, his feet dangling just above the branch.

  “Here goes nothing,” he gritted his teeth and slid from the branch.

  For the briefest moment, his feet landed squarely on the snow-covered branch, then, his shoes slipped and he jerked violently downward, saved only by his hold on the branch. His left arm ached, and a burst of pain in his right arm shot through his body as the impact shook it, but he held on, flipping his feet about until at last, they found and stayed on the final branch. Lowering his bottom again, Kel sat and rested, the cold temperatures searing the skin of his face as he leaned his head against the trunk of the tree. His feet dangled roughly a foot from the top of the snow, and he planned to lower himself away from the plane and into the snow as gently as he could, once he’d recovered a bit.

  After catching his breath, Kel took a long look at the ground below him, and grabbed a branch to lower himself down. He thought that when his feet hit the snow that he’d have solid ground underneath him, but he definitely didn’t. He lowered himself further and further, sinking into the snow up to his knees before finding somewhat solid footing. By this time, he was hanging onto the branch with his fingertips, so he let go, settling only a few inches when he did.

  The snow on top was fresh powder, but thankfully, the snow beneath it was dense and deep. If he could keep from sinking into it, chances were good that he’d be able to build a snow cave at the base of the tree, so that he’d be sheltered from the elements. Standing in the snow, he surveyed the austere landscape around him. It would be all too easy to die in the icy wonderland.

  Both wings had been ripped from the plane. One he couldn’t see, the other rested against the base of a tree that looked to be about ten yards away. Trying not to think about the fact that he’d left a dead pilot behind in his frozen grave, Kel made his way toward the wing, which would provide nearly ideal shelter for h
im. He noticed that the further he slogged through the snow, the more tired he became, and by the time he reached the wing of the plane, he could barely stay on his feet. Knowing that if he didn’t stay warm, he’d most certainly die, Kel crawled under the shelter of the wing, finding that the new powder hadn’t gotten underneath it, and spread out his sleeping bag.

  He wrapped up in both blankets and zipped himself inside the sub-zero protective sleeping bag, which hurt his right arm like crazy, and found himself protected from the wind and cold that had already burned his face. His last thought as he drifted away into a snowy dreamland was that he’d heard stories that most people who freeze to death do so because their bodies just shut down, and they go to sleep.

  **

  Spencer hadn’t traveled far when he saw what he was looking for. Suspended in the trees, with its nose hanging only a few feet from the ground, was Kel’s downed plane. The engine had thankfully not caught fire, but the fuel had clearly leaked out of the plane and onto the snow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Chas Beckett went over and over the details of the coroner’s report, vs. the police department’s lab results, still coming up with more questions than answers. Tim had identified the poison in Belle Fitzhugh’s body as being solanine, and it was Beulah’s chili which had tested positive for solanine, yet her home-canned tomatoes were negative for the substance, as was the chili that was left in her crockpot, which meant that practically anyone could have poisoned a random bowl in front of the judge. Perhaps the poison hadn’t even been intended for her.

  Flipping through the pages of Solinsky’s sloppy report, Chas read the interviews that had been done with judges and contestants. When he got to the bottom of the stack of them, he frowned, and sorted through them again, finally finding the paragraph-length report that he was looking for.

  “Victim’s husband, Donald R. Fitzhugh, was reached, at home, two days after the incident. Mr. Fitzhugh stated that he hadn’t attended the festival because he hadn’t been feeling well. He didn’t know of anyone who might have a grudge against his wife.”

  That was it? Chas blinked at the paper, shaking his head. In almost every homicide, detectives question those closest to the victim more carefully than all others, unless another suspect is glaringly evident. Most crimes are perpetrated for personal reasons, and intimate relationships are a starting point for an investigation. The fact that Solinsky waited two days to interview the husband, then took his word that he hadn’t been at the festival, without even offering an alibi, was suspect at best, and might just prove to be the nail in the coffin of the detective’s career.

  “Looks like I get to go talk to Don Fitzhugh,” Chas mused, actually glad to find another option to pursue. He didn’t believe that Beulah had killed the judge, either accidentally or on purpose, and hoped that he could solve the crime, sparing the feisty old woman more uncomfortable scrutiny.

  **

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzhugh doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” a harried-looking receptionist explained, before answering three phone calls and putting each of them on hold.

  Chas flashed the detective badge that the Chief had re-issued, and the receptionist sighed, holding up a forefinger to indicate that he should wait for a bit.

  “Okay, let me call him up here for you,” the receptionist said finally, tapping a button on her phone. “Mr. Fitzhugh? Yes, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a detective here to see you. Yes, sir. You’re welcome.”

  When she hung up the phone, she indicated that Chas should have a seat in the showroom, and that he’d be right out.

  “Detective?” a short, stout, grey-haired man approached Chas and held out his hand to shake.

  Chas stood, introduced himself and shook Don Fitzhugh’s hand.

  “I’m just here to follow up with you regarding your wife’s death,” he said quietly.

  “I gave a report to another fellow,” Don frowned. “Is there a specific reason that you’re here? Have you identified a suspect finally?”

  “No, not as yet. I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  A look of annoyance crossed Fitzhugh’s face, and he glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting soon, can we do this some other time?”

  “Let me be clear, Mr. Fitzhugh, I’m here investigating your wife’s murder. We can either talk here, or we can talk down at the station, but we need to talk now,” Chas replied, staring the man down.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes,” Don Fitzhugh’s words were clipped. “The other detective assured me that you people would be doing everything you could to figure out what happened. I don’t understand why you’re wasting time talking to me,” he muttered, leading Chas through a door off of the lobby and down the hall toward his office.

  “Have a seat,” Fitzhugh made it sound like an order as he turned his back to the detective and slipped behind his messy, oversized desk.

  “Did your secretary quit?” Chas raised an eyebrow, surveying the mess.

  Don stared at him with contempt. “No. For your information, I’ve lost some personnel over the last year, and I haven’t been able to replace them as yet, so my personal workload has increased. Let’s stick to the topic at hand, shall we?”

  “Fine. Where were you the morning that your wife died?”

  “Like I told the other guy, I was at home, in bed. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Did you go to the doctor?”

  “No, I don’t believe in ‘em.”

  “Is there anyone who could testify that you were at home between ten a.m. and noon on that day?”

  “No, of course not. I was home alone in bed.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  Fitzhugh stared at him.

  “I shouldn’t have to. I just lost my wife and I don’t appreciate the tone that you’re taking with me,” he blustered, his eyes glittering with what looked like hate.

  “I can appreciate your pain, Mr. Fitzhugh, but these types of details can be important,” Chas didn’t budge an inch.

  “No, I can’t prove that I was home by myself. Is that all?” Don challenged.

  “Just out of curiosity…those staff members that you lost this past year… did any of them have strange circumstances?”

  “No, one quit, one died and one got fired, why?”

  “Can I have their names please?” Chas asked, pen poised over his notebook.

  When Don Fitzhugh attached names with circumstances of their leaving the company, Chas couldn’t get out of his office quickly enough.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Fitzhugh. I’m sorry for your loss, and I want to reassure you that we will work as hard as possible on getting some answers for you,” he surprised the executive by saying.

  “I should hope so,” Don Fitzhugh stood, but didn’t shake the detective’s hand before he left the office.

  **

  Chas went straight from Don Fitzhugh’s office to his P.I. office so that he could meet with Ringo, the hacker he’d hired to track down elusive information.

  “Hey Boss Man,” the young man twirled around in his swiveling office chair, a piece of pizza in his hand.

  “Ringo, I need you to run a name for me. I want every bit of info that you can find on him,” Chas handed him a piece of paper.

  Ringo slurped a trail of orange grease from his fingers, took a huge bite of his pizza and nodded. “I’m on it.”

  “Good, need anything from me?”

  “A box of chocolate donuts wouldn’t hurt,” the hacker shrugged.

  “You got it. How long before you get some hits on the name?”

  “Give me half an hour, maybe faster if the donuts are from Belgin’s Bakery,” Ringo grinned.

  “Noted,” Chas replied, heading for the door.

  **

  “You weren’t exactly truthful with me, were you?” Chas’s face was grave.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Melinda Jeffries was wide-eyed.

  “Your husband didn’t re
tire from Don Fitzhugh’s company, did he?”

  Tears immediately sprang to the widow’s eyes, and she reached for a tissue.

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t accept that Don Fitzhugh fired him for something that wasn’t even his fault. He did such a good job for that company, it wasn’t fair,” she shook her head.

  “Tell me what happened,” Chas encouraged.

  “The Fitzhugh’s daughter, Chastity, was getting married, and there were a ton of special orders for both the wedding and the reception hall. Don Fitzhugh told my Milton that he wanted him to handle all of the ordering and set-up personally, to make sure that everything went smoothly for his daughter’s wedding.”

  “Was that standard practice? Did he often ask your husband to oversee specific orders personally?”

  “No, it was rare. Milt managed the department. There are people who did all of the ordering and follow-up.”

  “So, did your husband do as Mr. Fitzhugh requested?”

  Melinda nodded. “Yes, he did. He ordered everything himself and made sure that everything would be delivered in plenty of time.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Milt had checked the quantities of everything that came in. The items were all wrapped in plastic to protect it and keep it clean, with a packing strip on the outside that had quantities and item numbers, that sort of thing, on them. He didn’t dare take the plastic off, because he didn’t want the linens and things to get smudged or dirty,” Melinda’s voice cracked on the last word, and she took a moment to compose herself.

  “When the crew went out to the reception hall to set up for the wedding, it turned out that they were two tablecloths short. Chastity had ordered them in a special color that couldn’t be found anywhere locally, so Milt sent an employee out to buy two more tablecloths in white, while he called Mr. Fitzhugh to tell him about it. Mrs. Fitzhugh answered the phone and started screaming at poor Milt. She got pretty hysterical, so, after being verbally abused and being called every nasty name in the book, Milt felt like the best thing that he could do was to hang up. He didn’t hear back from the Fitzhughs, and went to work on Monday morning like he always did,” Melinda paused, dabbing at her nose, then continued.