Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series

by Summer Prescott

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Chas had been swamped all day. When he wasn’t working on the mountain of paperwork engulfing his desk, he was on the phone with Chalmers, the caretaker of the Beckett estate and director of Beckett Holdings Corp., trying to figure out why there was a strange woman hounding him, and what her cryptic insinuations might have meant. The shrewd elderly man was mildly alarmed, and promised to look into any new transactions and accounts to see if anything seemed amiss.

  It was well past eleven when Chas finally rubbed his eyes, stretched, and decided that the typewritten lines of the reports were jumping and twitching too much from his fatigue for him to accomplish anything else. Gazing at his reflection in the washroom before he left, the typically flawlessly groomed detective was dismayed to see his hair askew from running impatient fingers through it while he was on the phone, and dark circles of exhaustion smudged under his bloodshot eyes. He was starving, but much too exhausted to eat, and couldn’t wait to slip into the sweet embrace of his wife as she welcomed him to bed.

  ***

  Missy was curled up miserably on the window seat in the master bedroom, with the dogs snoring softly from their bed in the corner. She hadn’t been able to even think about food, and had spent her evening crying and rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around her midsection, feeling as though she’d disintegrate at any moment. The only light in the room came from the glow of a small lamp by her side of the bed. Chas had attempted to call her a couple of times and she had simply let the calls go to voicemail, not bothering to listen to the messages. Echo had texted, and that communication had gone unanswered as well.

  Adrenaline shot through her when she saw the beams of light from Chas’s car, and her stomach plunged to her knees. Missy let out a soft moan, knowing that in a few short minutes, she was going to be having the most painful conversation of her entire life. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and it seemed that his ascent was agonizingly slow. Taking off his sports coat, he opened the bedroom door, and glanced over at her in the semi-darkness, surprised.

  “You didn’t have to wait up for me, sweetie,” he said softly, setting his sport coat on the chaise and coming over to kiss her cheek.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, looking down at her hands, which were twisting in her lap.

  He sat down on the window seat, facing her. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked up at him, saw what looked like genuine concern in his beautiful blue eyes, and burst into tears. He took her in his arms, and she let him, for now. She couldn’t help herself, she sniffed his shirt to see if there was any trace of strange perfume, then covered her face with her hands and sobbed quietly.

  “Hey, hey,” he soothed, smoothing her hair and kissing the top of her head. “What is it, sweetie? What’s going on?”

  “Did you have anything to eat today?” she asked, pulling back and sniffling, trying to regain control.

  Now Chas was totally baffled.

  “Not much,” he admitted. “I had breakfast at Betty’s, and ate an apple for lunch, but after that I worked straight through until now. I’m honestly too tired to eat.”

  Missy had wrapped her arms around herself again, and Chas wondered if she had received bad news about something, or if she was sick.

  “How was breakfast?” she asked dully, staring out the window.

  Chas frowned. He wanted to keep his precious Missy as far away from Beckett family drama as he possibly could, so he decided not to mention his encounter with “Darla.” It looked as though she had enough that she was dealing with already.

  “I went a bit outside of my normal fare and ordered bacon with my pancakes,” he said, with a confused half-smile, wondering why she was asking about something so mundane when there was clearly something wrong.

  “I saw you,” Missy said quietly, still looking out the window, feeling betrayed that he hadn’t told her about having breakfast with another woman.

  “I’m sorry sweetie, you’re going to have to help me out here. I feel like we’re not participating in the same conversation, and I want to help you with whatever’s bothering you,” he gently turned her chin so that she would face him, and was astounded by the depth of pain in her eyes.

  “I saw you… at Betty’s,” she began, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and her breath coming in little gasps and hiccups. “I saw that woman… touching you,” she accused, crying harder.

  When he reached for her this time, she shrank from him, drowning in her misery.

  “Missy… my love… what you saw was a woman who came to threaten me about my family business. I had no plans to meet her there, I didn’t have any idea who she was and I still don’t. She came in after I did, and I suspect that she was following me,” he said urgently, his heart breaking over what his sweet wife must’ve thought.

  “Why was she touching you?” she blurted, her sobs shuddering through her, making her feel ill.

  “Because she was trying to manipulate me, and I didn’t let her, sweetie. I got up and left.”

  He told her what had happened, and offered to go with her to ask Betty what she heard.

  “She came here, too,” Missy tried to take a breath, but her shoulders kept hitching with the impact of her tears.

  “What happened?” Chas frowned, concerned.

  “I went for a walk with the girls, and…” Missy’s explanation was interrupted by Chas’s work phone ringing.

  “I’m so sorry…” he began.

  “No, it’s okay, go ahead and answer it,” she mumbled, drained.

  The detective’s brow furrowed as he listened to the dispatcher on the other end. He asked a few clipped questions, nodded unconsciously at the responses, and hung up rather quickly. He caressed his wife’s tear-stained face, deeply saddened by her pain.

  “Sweetie, there’s nowhere that I’d rather be right now than talking with you and holding you until you feel better, but, they’ve found a body…” he apologized.

  “No, it’s okay,” she nodded, wiping at her nose with a crumpled tissue. “You have a job to do… go do it. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  “That’s what makes my life worth living, Melissa,” he said huskily.

  She lifted her face to his kiss, relieved and utterly spent. She’d have no trouble going to sleep now; she just wondered what might haunt her in her dreams.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hannah Folsom frowned as she dabbed hydrogen peroxide on her arm. The scratches that Missy had managed to inflict before Spencer could drag her away had broken the skin pretty profoundly, and the peroxide stung and bubbled as she cleaned the wounds. She had to chuckle though when she saw how profoundly she’d gotten under the skin of both Charles and Melissa Beckett. On his own, the detective probably wouldn’t be swayed, but if he thought that his precious hick wife might be dragged into a mess, Hannah might just end up getting the information that she wanted.

  Feeling rather pleased with herself, she opened her laptop and spread her notes across the large work surface that the hotel had conveniently provided. She hadn’t learned much in the short time that she’d been in Calgon, but she managed to figure out who Kel was, and had documented interaction with him, Betty, Chas, and Missy. She’d also remembered who the young woman with Missy in the cupcake shop was, Izzy Gillmore. She’d done a rather scathing review of one of the woman’s books a few years ago and had received everything from prank calls to death threats as a result. To say that Izzy’s fans were loyal was an understatement, and some of them were more than a bit creepy, so she’d taken some notes on that as well.

  Hannah sent off an email, and took care of a couple of other online tasks and searches, while her stomach grumbled madly. Realizing that she wasn’t going to continue being productive until she had some food, she closed the laptop, ran a brush through her hair and headed out the door, looking for a decent meal. She never saw the man who waited until she stepped on the elevator before slipping quickly into her room.

  Once inside
, he gingerly picked up the phone with a gloved hand and made a call that would inspire a series of events that could quite possibly bring down the Beckett empire.

  ***

  Hannah left the Thai Takeout Hut with a trendy paper bag that was emanating a delightful mixture of scents. She hadn’t been able to decide on just one dish, so she’d purchased three and would see which one suited her best. Munching on a spring roll and savoring the crunch of peanuts and julienned vegetables, covered by the delicate, spongy wrapping, she strode toward her rental car, looking forward to digging in and then putting together elements of her story on the Beckett family.

  “Ouch… ohhh noooo… help me… please. Someone… please… I’m hurt.”

  Hannah heard the soft cries coming from around the side of the restaurant. The area there was dark, bordering a vacant lot, and she couldn’t see where the sound was coming from. Normally, her first instinct would be to keep walking and mind her own business, but something about the helpless, plaintive sound made her curious. Not concerned, curious, the way that people are curious about car accidents and natural disasters. She didn’t care about whomever was hurting, but something compelled her to go see what had happened. She stood still for a moment, trying to decide whether she should go take a look, or simply go back to the hotel and fill her stomach, when she heard the cries again. Sighing, she knew that it would only take a moment to satisfy her curiosity, and then she could go home and eat.

  Hannah rounded the corner of the building, walking slowly. She could have used her cell phone flashlight to see better in the dark, but she didn’t want whomever was there to see her coming. If she could just catch a glance without being seen, so much the better. If something was really awful, she’d just call 911 and head home to eat, or if it was just a wino, complaining because of a hangover, she didn’t need or want to interact, and would slip quietly away. Either way, she’d be parked back in front of her computer, slurping up noodles and spicy sauce in less than twenty minutes.

  Picking her way carefully around dumpsters, stacked pallets, empty cardboard boxes, and various other castoffs from the restaurant, she made her way to the back corner of the building where she saw an elderly woman, in a housecoat and worn sneakers, lying on the ground, holding her knee and moaning in pain.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” the woman cried weakly, curled up miserably, her chin to her chest. “Heaven sent me an angel. Can you help me?” she reached out a shaking hand to the hard-bitten reporter, whose first instinct was to turn around and take her Thai home, pretending like she never saw or heard the old woman. “Please?” the woman was clearly on the verge of tears.

  Having no idea what was compelling her to suddenly take on the uncomfortable role of Good Samaritan, Hannah sighed inwardly, but approached the woman, bending down to see what was the matter.

  The last thing she saw was the coldly professional look in the killer’s eyes as he reached for her throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Fiona McCamish nearly skipped into her boss’s office, excited by the phone call that had just come in.

  “Timmy, we’ve got one,” her eyes sparkled a bit.

  “Don’t call me that,” Timothy Eckels, the doughy, pale man behind the desk muttered. “Police or private?”

  “Police… homicide,” she announced, trying hard not to let her enthusiasm bubble over.

  Fiona had been working as the mortuary manager and personal assistant to Tim for several months now, and was learning gruesome and morbid new things every day. Her enigmatic boss had recently accepted a position as county medical examiner, which left much of the day-to-day routine of running Memorial Mortuary to her. She had badgered the shy, reclusive man for a job, which he begrudgingly offered, on the condition that she get rid of the spiky mohawk, black nails and makeup and multiple piercings that might scare off his customers.

  He’d enlisted Missy and Echo’s help, Echo being his next door neighbor, in getting the attractive young gal a makeover, and the rest was history. It wasn’t as though Fiona enjoyed death, not at all, but she, like her mentor Timothy Eckels, saw the importance in properly preparing the deceased for the funeral, and reading the clues that the corpse displayed when doing an autopsy.

  “We don’t know that it’s homicide until we get there,” Tim replied mildly, reaching for his bag.

  “But they said…” she began.

  “They don’t know. They’re guessing. That’s why we go to these events. We find the clues that tell us what happened, when and how, so that they don’t have to rely on their guesses,” he pushed his coke-bottle thick glasses up his nose with a forefinger and headed for the hearse.

  “Is the…” he began.

  “Yes, I put gas in it this morning, so we’re all ready to go,” Fiona jumped in, eager to get to the scene.

  “Did you…” he tried again.

  “Yup, I locked the front entrance before I came to get you, and I forwarded the phones to my cell,” she replied, knowing the litany of questions that he asked her every time.

  “Are the…”

  “Yup, directions are pulled up on GPS. I’m driving,” she said quickly.

  “No, you’re not,” he blinked at her.

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she grinned.

  To say that Timothy Eckels wasn’t a people-person would be a profound understatement, and spunky, mischievous Fiona had made it her mission in life to provide human interaction to him, whether he wanted it or not, which often came in the form of teasing. She had learned her boss and his quirks well, and usually knew what he was going to say before he said it. They were both misfits, in their own ways, but they worked very well together. Tim was a master of his profession, and had found a willing sidekick in Fiona McCamish.

  ***

  Tim and Fiona arrived at the scene before Chas did, and the medical examiner was already taking photos of the corpse when the detective arrived. The woman was lying on her side in a pool of blood, her hair tossed over her face, obscuring it.

  “What have we got?” Chas asked the uniformed cop who was observing the medical examiner while the forensics team was combing over the immediate area.

  “Homicide, looks like it’s random. She stopped for food, got lured back here and some psycho offed her,” the officer guessed.

  “Nope,” Timothy muttered, kneeling and bending to the side to get a particular angle for the photo.

  Chas and the cop turned, staring at him for further explanation. When none seemed forthcoming, Chas spoke.

  “Nope, what?” he asked, stepping closer to the scene.

  “I don’t believe that it was random. I’ll know more after I finish the photos and am able to move the body.”

  “What makes you think that it wasn’t random?” the detective asked, gazing down at the corpse and feeling a strange sense of déjà vu.

  “When there is this much blood lost, it’s either from a large wound, or a precise one. I don’t see any evidence yet of a large wound, which means it was precise. Whoever did this knew what they were doing,” Tim replied, moving around for a different angle.

  “Detective!” one of the forensics team called out to Chas from a spot by the dumpster. “We may have an ID on the woman,” he held up a purse in his gloved hand.

  “I’ll be right there,” Chas acknowledged.

  Tim instructed Fiona to carefully move the woman’s hair out of her face so that he could get another shot, and the detective stayed put to see, raising his eyebrows and sucking in his breath when her face was revealed.

  “You know her?” the officer next to him asked, surprised, peering down at the woman whose mouth had been duct-taped shut.

  “Sort of. I know her first name, it’s Darla,” the detective frowned.

  The forensics tech had approached, and was standing behind him going through the handbag that he’d found in the dumpster.

  “No, her name is Hannah,” he said, holding up an open wallet with a New York driver’s license displayed. “
Hannah Folsom. We also found this,” he continued, holding up a large evidence bag which contained a curly, white-haired wig and a gaudy floral housecoat.

  Tim, done with all of the original position photos, handed the camera to Fiona, and focused his attention on finding clues as to what had happened. Turning the body to its other side, the medical examiner found the mortal wound. He frowned and pursed his lips, motioning to Fiona to take another photo.

  “This was done by someone who knows about DNA and crime scenes,” he concluded, his eyes roving over the woman’s face.

  “What makes you say that?” Chas asked, peering at Hannah more closely.

  “See the bruising around the nostrils and jaw?” he pointed with a pen at the bruising that looked like it continued underneath the duct tape. “That’s an indication that she was suffocated until she passed out, but clearly, as is evidenced by all of this blood, suffocation wasn’t what killed her.”

  The pasty man, who had been holding Hannah’s head up in order to see more clearly, gently set it down, stood up, and used the back of his wrist to push his glasses up his nose. He moved around until he stood next to the top of her head, and squatted down, visualizing.

  “The angle of the tiny cut that severed her artery slants upward, which means that whoever did this, moved around behind her to make the cut, but knew exactly where and how deep to make it, something that takes both knowledge and skill. The splatter pattern on her clothing indicates the arc and flow, and tells us that the killer turned her body away, so that none of the blood would touch them. They knew enough to keep evidence away from their body,” Tim explained, blinking like an owl.

  “Male or female perp?” Chas asked.

  “Based on the size and shape of the facial bruises, either male or a female with unusually large hands,” the medical examiner replied.