Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series

by Summer Prescott

  “Yes sir, I’m aware, and I’m working diligently to determine how and why the unfortunate events occurred,” the former servant assured him.

  “I, along with Missy, Spencer, and a dear friend, have become the focus of a murder investigation,” Chas explained in a low voice. “We need to work quickly to get this figured out. They haven’t suspended me just yet, but I’ve been relegated to desk work until this whole mess gets figured out.”

  “I understand sir, and I have marshaled a formidable force to get to the bottom of this. I assure you, we will get this matter resolved before undue harm is caused to anyone in the family or inner circle,” Chalmers promised.

  “The reporter implied that BHC was doing business with criminals… any idea who she may have been talking about?”

  “I have a couple of leads that I’m working on, sir,” was the cagey reply.

  “Care to share?” Chas raised an eyebrow, annoyed by the lack of information.

  “I’m sorry sir, but disclosing that information to you might put you in harm’s way, and I cannot have that,” Chalmers said with quiet authority.

  The detective knew that his father’s representative would protect him at all costs, so he didn’t press the matter.

  “Is Reggie involved?” he asked. His brother, Reginald Beckett, had gotten himself into messes on an international level, and Chas wouldn’t be surprised if his brother had jeopardized the integrity of the company somehow. His father had been smart to name Chalmers as the company watchdog when Chas had refused to actively participate. It was a position that Reggie couldn’t have handled responsibly.

  “Mercifully, no,” the dignified elderly man replied. “I’ve tasked your brother with managing a handful of our South American accounts, and he’s been doing remarkably well. I think perhaps his run-ins with those rough characters in Monaco may have set him on a bit of a straighter path.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Chas agreed. “Do you think that what’s happening now has anything to do with his trips to Monaco?”

  “Difficult to say. I certainly hope not, but I have extra security personnel in place, just as a precaution.”

  Reggie had made an ill-fated trip to Monaco a few weeks ago, and Chas, with Spencer’s help, had gone over to disentangle him from the claws of a greedy British earl, who had hoped to avoid poverty by swindling the younger Beckett son out of a healthy part of the family fortune. Someone around that time had nearly killed Chalmers with poison, but a direct link between the earl and the assassination attempt had never been uncovered, and his assailant remained a mystery. The detective strongly suspected that there had to be a connection between the attempt on Chalmers’s life and the attempted assassination of the family name and reputation by Hannah Folsom. He let the overseer know about his suspicions, and told him that he was searching for the source of Hannah’s information.

  “Begging your pardon sir, but I really would prefer that you let me and my team handle this situation.”

  “I know you would, Chalmers, but you know me well enough to know that I refuse to sit by and do nothing, when my family is at risk. Is Spencer with you?”

  “Is he not with you?” the elderly man’s voice showed a tinge of alarm.

  Chalmers had handpicked Spencer, when he was a very young man, to train for a very special position with the Beckett family, which most recently included providing security for Missy and Chas, unbeknownst to Missy.

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Very well, sir. I’m afraid that I need to make some phone calls, but I will keep you abreast of any new information that I discover,” the servant sounded hurried.

  “Thank you, Chalmers,” the detective replied.

  “My pleasure as always, sir,” was the quick reply before the line went dead.

  Jim Reubens, standing just outside the office door and had overheard most of the conversation, his brow furrowed in thought.

  ***

  “Did he know that I’m here?” Spencer sat in a chair in Chalmers’s study, dressed in an expensive suit, studying his boss and mentor.

  “He suspected, but I believe I have allayed his fears… for now,” the servant replied. “Do you have your passport?”

  The Marine patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket and nodded.

  “You know what to do,” Chalmers said, gazing at him steadily.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Author Izzy Gillmore might appear to be a sweet, innocent wisp of a young woman, who tended to be more than a bit reclusive, but when someone she loved was in danger, she turned into a profound force to be reckoned with. Detective Jim Reubens had told her not to leave town, but there was no way in the world that she was going to sit quietly in her tidy pink cottage and wait for things to work themselves out. The police were looking for Spencer in connection with the murder of someone who had wronged her in the past, and she was darn sure going to find out who actually killed Hannah Folsom. The woman had to have a ton of enemies, and there was one person who should know, Hannah’s editor, Binks McDermott.

  Now paranoid, and with good reason, Izzy saw a police officer walking toward her in the Miami airport, and pretended to answer her phone, turning her face away. Once she passed the officer, she pocketed her phone, making a beeline to her gate. She had gotten through security just fine, heart pounding and holding her breath, hoping that she wouldn’t be stopped, but she wouldn’t be comfortable until she had been seated on the plane.

  ***

  Izzy had spent the entire flight from Florida to New York squished between the window and a florid-faced chatty Texan who threw back bourbon with cola like it was water. She’d feigned sleep to try to stem the flood of chatter, but he’d merely directed it to the skinny gothic kid on the other side of him. She’d been away from the city for a long time, having vowed not to go back except for an emergency, but once she stepped to the curb and put two fingers between her lips to hail a cab, she felt the familiar ebb and flow of city life seeping into her bones as naturally as if she’d never left.

  She stopped by her hotel only long enough to check in and run a hasty brush through her hair, missing the laid-back pace of life in sleepy Calgon already. As she slipped into another cab and headed for the offices of the NYC Reveal, her mouth was set in a determined line. She took the elevator in the relatively new steel and glass high-rise to the eleventh floor, and marched to the front desk.

  “Izzy Gillmore, I’m here to see Binks McDermott,” she said sweetly to the receptionist, whose eyes widened upon hearing the famous name.

  “Izzy Gillmore? Oh my gosh, I’m such a fan,” she gushed, her smile wide. “I have one of your books in my purse, would you mind signing it for me?”

  “I’d love to,” the author agreed with a grin. “We can take care of that after I meet with Binks.”

  “Oh! Right, of course… Mr. McDermott,” the receptionist suddenly remembered why Izzy was standing in front of her. “Hold on just a second,” she smiled, blushing, and let out a star-struck giggle.

  “Hello, Mr. McDermott? You won’t believe who’s here to see you… Izzy Gillmore, the horror author,” she announced excitedly.

  The receptionist listened for a moment and her face fell, then she frowned, then she blushed deeply.

  “Oh… I see. Uh-huh… oh, really? I had no idea… of course. Yes, yes sir. Okay,” the now glowing-red receptionist clicked off of the extension.

  She cleared her throat and gave Izzy a pained look.

  “He… umm…” she began.

  “He refused to see me?” Izzy raised an eyebrow, staring the young woman down.

  “Well, yes, that…” she sighed and leaned forward to whisper. “He told me to call security and throw you out of the building,” she confided, her eyes darting about.

  Izzy quirked an eyebrow, a fire lighting in her eyes.

  “Tell him I’ll see him in Athens. While you’re doing that, I’ll sign your book,” she smiled like the cat who ate the canary.

  “Really?” th
e receptionist brightened. “Okay, hang on a second, I’ll run and get it.”

  “What’s your name?” Izzy asked, uncapping her pen, when the receptionist brought her the book.

  “Elena,” she said, practically dancing with excitement.

  “Elena,” the author said in a low voice, pen poised over the book. “Call Binks and tell him I’ll see him in Athens.”

  “Oh, right, okay. But… that might make him mad,” she bit her lip.

  “If he’s mad, he’ll be mad at me, not you, and you’ll have made me very happy.”

  “Oh, uh… okay.”

  Elena went back behind the desk, reluctantly picked up the receiver and delivered Izzy’s message. Not twenty seconds later, Binks McDermott poked his nearly bald head, with the bad comb-over, out of the door which led to the inner sanctum.

  “Get in here, Gillmore,” he hissed, as Izzy grinned smugly.

  She handed the book back to an astounded Elena and sashayed down the hall behind a fuming Binks.

  McDermott slammed down into his chair and glared at the author, not bothering to offer her a seat across the desk from him.

  “What?” he demanded. “I thought when we gave you a generous settlement, that we had seen the last of you.”

  “A generous settlement? What a funny little term that is for ‘court-mandated compensation,’ after my attorney hung you out to dry,” she smirked at him. “What I’m here for has nothing to do with that, however. I’m sure you’ve heard about Hannah by now…”

  “I wish,” he muttered. “I haven’t heard a word from her. I mean, I understand being wrapped up in a story, but she’s been out of contact for a couple of days now. It’s irresponsible,” he groused, tapping his desk with a pen.

  Izzy’s eyes went wide, and she sighed, not having anticipated being the one who had to tell Hannah’s boss that she was dead.

  “Oh dear,” she gazed at Binks with something akin to pity, giving him the heads-up that something must be terribly wrong.

  “What?” he narrowed his eyes, leaning forward.

  “Binks, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… Hannah was murdered a couple of days ago,” Izzy said softly. She wasn’t a fan of Binks or the organization that he represented, but she wasn’t heartless either.

  For perhaps the first time in his life, the blowhard editor was stunned speechless, gaping at her.

  “Wha-what? How—? Izzy Gillmore, I swear to you, if this is some kind of sick joke, I’ll…” he finally managed to sputter.

  “It’s not a joke, Binks. She was murdered in Calgon. That’s why I’m here; I want to know who could’ve done it and why.”

  “Wait,” he regarded her with suspicion. “What were you doing there?”

  “I live there. It’s just a weird coincidence,” she replied impatiently.

  Binks was skeptical. “Mmhmm… what if I don’t believe in coincidences?” he asked, trying his best to sound intimidating.

  “Binks, stop wasting time being ridiculous. There’s a killer out there somewhere. Was anything strange or threatening happening to Hannah before she left New York?”

  “She had received some aggressive anonymous phone calls, but that’s pretty much a regular event around here,” he shrugged.

  “Did she seem worried about them?”

  “No more than usual. She’s… she was… a tough cookie, knew how to handle herself. Anonymous threats didn’t rattle her, they were just a part of the job.”

  “What stories was she working on?”

  “None of your business, Miss Nosy,” Binks shot back. “I should be asking you a bunch of questions instead of the other way around.”

  “You might as well get used to answering questions, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from the police soon enough,” Izzy pointed out.

  “What do you know about what… happened?” he asked, looking like the impact of the news had just registered.

  “Nothing, unfortunately. I only know about the murder because Hannah had been pestering some people that I know, and the police talked to me about it.”

  “People? What people?” Binks picked up a pen, suddenly laser-focused.

  Izzy shook her head. “No, Binks. Not until you tell me what Hannah was working on,” she levelled a stare at him.

  “What makes you so convinced that this has something to do with what she was working on?” he hedged.

  “Maybe because she had no social life, few friends, and lots of enemies who were the victims of her stories?” Izzy folded her arms and waited.

  “This one was big,” Binks sighed, giving in. “You ever hear of Beckett Holdings Corp.?”

  “No,” Izzy shook her head, playing dumb.

  “Well, they’re a huge international conglomerate that is rumored to have ties to several world governments, including ours. Hannah had been trying to dig around for dirt on them for years, and had finally found something which seemed to indicate that the Becketts had gotten themselves mixed up with some less than savory characters, who were planning to use their new association to do some very dangerous things,” he explained.

  “What kinds of dangerous things? Arms dealing? Nukes? What?” Izzy asked, trying hard to breathe normally. Missy and Chas were such sweet people; it was nearly impossible to imagine that they were somehow associated with international bad guys.

  Binks shrugged. “She didn’t say. She mentioned that the Beckett family seems to employ an army of personal security guards, real James Bond types who just take care of things and make difficult situations disappear. I don’t know how she found any of that out, and I don’t know who else knows what she knows. She went to Florida because Charles Beckett, the board president, lives there. He keeps a low profile apparently, and isn’t involved in the day-to-day operations, but she couldn’t get past security for the rest of the family in New York, so she was going to try to get to the more approachable Beckett.”

  “But didn’t he have a security guard?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

  “Hard to say. She was going down there to see what she could find out, and with what happened, I gotta think that she may have found out too much,” he stared at his desk and shook his head. “She was one of the best.”

  Izzy didn’t know what to say. She certainly didn’t have any love for Hannah Folsom, but she wasn’t so insensitive to think that Binks would be unaffected. He and Hannah had worked together for years, and were the team who had made NYC Reveal rise through the ranks in a tough news and sensationalism market.

  “Who do you think—?” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Well, either someone from Beckett Holdings found out what she was doing and silenced her, because she could’ve ruined their reputation, or the international criminals that she was trying to find got to her.”

  Izzy swallowed hard, putting herself in the reporter’s shoes and feeling terrified. The intercom on Binks’s desk buzzed, and Elena’s hesitant voice came through the speaker.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mr. McDermott, but… there are some detectives here to see you,” she announced.

  “Hold on just a moment, Elena,” he replied, pressing the mute button and turning to Izzy.

  “I’m guessing you’d rather slip out the back way?” he asked, seeming closer to human than she’d ever seen him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Out this door, go to the end of the hall and down the stairs on the left. You can catch the elevator on the next level,” he advised, as Izzy gathered her purse and headed for the door.

  “I’ll find out what I can,” she promised, hurrying out.

  “Thanks, kid,” Binks said. He let his finger off of the mute button. “I’ll be up there in a moment,” he told Elena, buying time for Izzy to disappear.

  Izzy shook off a serious case of the heebie jeebies by going shopping in the city and indulging in meals unlike anything that she could get in Florida. Her mind felt as though it was zipping around in circles, turning the Beckett mystery and
Hannah’s death over and over, trying to figure out her next step.

  She trod wearily into her hotel, her brain still spinning a mile a minute and her body craving rest. Her plans for the evening included a bath, room service, and whatever happened to be playing on the movie channel. She was going to shove all thoughts of Hannah Folsom, Spencer, the Becketts, and everything else that was stressing her out, out of her mind and just chill, so that she could be refreshed and renewed for whatever she needed to do the next day.

  Stopping at the front desk, she placed a huge order for room service, which included designer peppered parmesan popcorn and two different kinds of candy to eat during the movies. Leaning back against the wall of the elevator while the attendant pushed the button for the penthouse, Izzy closed her eyes until she felt the velvet and marble-lined box glide to a stop. The attendant followed her out, carrying her purchases in white gloved hands, standing behind her while she touched her card to the pad next to the door.

  “Just set them over there,” she instructed, pointing to a console in the foyer, while digging in her purse for a tip. “There you are,” she handed a twenty to the man, knowing that a significant portion of his income came from tips.

  He took the bill, pocketed it, and, rather than leaving, smiled and moved toward her, his hand stuck out to shake. Thinking it a bit odd, Izzy placed her delicate hand in his and was startled when he pulled her to him in a flash, twisting her arm behind her back and clapping a huge hand over her mouth and nose, making it difficult to breathe. He repositioned the hand, pulling upward on her arm to keep her immobile, and she stomped on his foot, trying to distract him. Her sensible walking shoes had no effect on him, and he effectively clamped her mouth and nose shut.

  Chest burning with lack of air, Izzy struggled, despite the pain that ripped through the muscles in her arm. Her vision started greying around the edges, and she fought impotently against the much larger man, eventually succumbing to the darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN