Twisted Tales from a Murderous Mind

by Linda Ungar

  “As long as I’m with you.”

  The sun did not shine on the bride and groom. A misty drizzle blanketed the city. The bridal bouquet of fresh flowers, so recently plucked from life at their peak of beauty, provided a welcome burst of color against the gloom. Their fragrance perfumed the air. Karen was radiant in a pale blue silk suit. A matching wide-brimmed gauzy hat framed her face. Of course she wore the diamond star.

  When Nigel saw her, he said, “I’m not at all surprised the day is overcast. It’s obvious all the blue has left heaven and gone into your eyes.”

  Karen hardly heard the words of the simple civil ceremony. She was almost surprised when she saw Nigel leaning towards her to take his kiss. “We’re actually married.” Karen whispered, still not quite believing her luck.

  “Yes we are, Mrs. Craxford.”

  They chose the slower route, and so arrived late in the evening. They pulled up to a remote cottage on a bluff high above the sea. It was too dark to see anything, but they could hear the waves breaking against the coastline far below. The headlights shone on a weathered sign hanging from a lamppost. MOUSE SEA, it read.

  “Mouse Sea.” Her laughter was uncontrollable. “You have got to be kidding me. It’s not bad enough to live in Mousehole, but you have to name your cottage that?”

  “It wasn’t me,” protested Nigel, joining in her laughter, “I told you it’s been in my family for years. The story is that a little child, who lived here long ago, had a beloved pet mouse who died. The name is supposed to be in memory of that mouse. No one has ever had the heart to change it.”

  “You’ve got a kinder heart than I have.”

  Nigel unpacked all the luggage from the car and piled it on the front step. He put in the key, and pushed open the reluctant front door. He then went from room to room, turning on the lights so Karen could see. The comfortably furnished rooms, cozy in the lamp light, welcomed her. She looked at Nigel in gratitude. She was home.

  The morning brought new delight to Karen. A small garden hugged the house, the sea sparkled through the windows. Broken bits of sunlight floated on the water’s surface.

  “This view is incredible, you can look out over the water and see forever.” He joined her at the window and followed her gaze.

  “So true,” he thought.

  Karen’s honeymoon was blissful. Days were spent exploring the village and surrounding countryside. Nights, after simple suppers they made together, were spent making love, locked in each other’s arms.

  Every morning Nigel presented her with some small thoughtful present. After they had been there almost a week, Nigel announced “I have one last surprise for you.” He took her down a twisted path that led to a cove. Tied up on the rock-strewn sand, was a small launch.

  “Get in.” he ordered.

  She was momentarily taken aback at the tone of his voice. Obediently, she climbed in. Now Nigel was grinning widely. They motored around a bend and followed the coast until they entered Mousehole Harbour. He brought the launch alongside an obviously new boat, a fifty-foot sleek beauty. A flight of crying gulls circled overhead. The sea wind, whipped her dark hair across her face. Nigel pointed to the name written on the side of the boat. STAR OF THE SEA. “It’s yours!” he said proudly. “I bought it for you.”

  “You did this just for me?” Karen was overcome with tears.

  “Absolutely.”

  That night, after dinner, Nigel did not want to make love. Instead, he took a book from a crowded bookshelf, seated himself in an easy chair next to the empty hearth, and read out loud to her.

  Do not go gentle into that good night

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Karen was disturbed by his selection. “Why would you choose such a gloomy poem to read to me, especially on our honeymoon?”

  “I like to read Dylan Thomas whenever I’m here. It’s really a fitting tribute to our honeymoon, since as I told you before, he also spent his honeymoon here.”

  That’s also when he told her he wanted to spend the next day and night on their new boat. “We need to take advantage of the last of the good weather. It can get quite windy and chilly out at sea.”

  In the morning, packing up her clothing and provisions needed for the boat, Karen felt reluctant to leave. “I feel like I’m in a storybook here. Cinderella and Prince Charming come to mind, but instead of a castle there’s a cottage. Actually, I prefer the cottage. I just hope it all doesn’t come to an end at midnight.”

  “Not to worry,” Nigel kissed her forehead, “I can promise you I’ll still be here in the morning.”

  They left the harbour and soon lost sight of land. Nigel kept going. He handled the boat with expertise as he stayed on course. The weather was cool and clear, the sea calm. Late in the day they dropped anchor and prepared their evening meal. They ate on deck and watched the light leave the world. As it grew dark, they leaned together against the rail and gazed up at the stars, brilliant in the night sky. There still was no sight of land and they hadn’t seen another boat for hours.

  “Does anyone out there know where we are?”

  “I hope not.”

  Later Karen was relieved when he wanted to make love again. Afterwards, lying in his arms, she only half jokingly said “Last night I was afraid you had gotten tired of me.”

  “I will never get tired of you, my darling girl. I can swear to that.” The boat rocked gently in the waves. The movement of the sea lulled Karen into deep, dreamless slumber. The night, lit by ghosts of long dead stars, grew cold. Karen shivered in her sleep and awoke with a chill. She saw Nigel standing over her. She never saw the morning sun.

  PART TWO

  UNRAVELED

  The slamming of the door in the upstairs flat, accompanied by the usual angry shouts, startled Elizabeth out of sleep and into another day. “Why bother setting my alarm?” she wondered. “The fucking neighbors start fighting every morning at 5:30 am. Why the hell do they stay together? I hope they don’t think it’s for the children’s sake. My parents used that excuse for years. I’m living proof it’s not a winning strategy.”

  Elizabeth, sleep deprived, as usual, dragged herself into the shower. That usually helped her revive somewhat. Looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror was also not a good way to start her day. In spite of all the tips she tried to get from fashion magazines on how to look her best, she never got the results she wanted. The advice was often to play up what nature gave you, not to try to look like someone else. Be the best you can be. That was in the last article she had read. But what she had to work with, or against, was a short, stocky build, an ordinary face and a prominent nose.

  Her hair was straight and silky, but the color of a field mouse. No matter what makeup she used, she never liked the results. “I really need to have my hair and makeup done by a professional,” she thought. But a policewoman’s salary didn’t allow for such luxuries, especially when she was saving every extra pound she had to buy a quiet new flat in a better neighborhood. She thought she’d be able to start looking after her next paycheck. But even then, she’d have to keep up the payments on a more expensive place. She saw no way to fulfill her wish to pamper herself, no matter how much she felt she deserved it. A divorced woman in her early forties, with no children and no prospects, her future did not look bright.

  In spite of that, she was not yet ready to give up on life. She had read too many stories where people who had nothing, wound up having their dreams come true. On the commute to work, as she was jostled along her route by the swaying of the train and other commuters pushing past her, she read an article about an entrepreneur who had started with nothing. When asked the difference between people who became rich and those who remained poor, his answer was, “Poor people spend their money, rich people invest their money.” She hoped the money she had saved for the new flat fell into the investment category.

  As she stepped out of the train and on to the platform, she was blasted
by gusts of damp chilly air. Some rubbish that had been dropped on the sidewalk blew across her path. Instinctively, she reached down, picked it up and dropped it into a nearby receptacle. “Maybe that’s what attracted me to police work,” she thought, “I like getting rubbish off the street.” Early spring weather was unpredictable, and coming out of the windy streets into police headquarters brought little relief. The atmosphere inside the gray nondescript building was also chilly. Her fellow police officers did not warm to an ambitious, smart woman who was determined to become a detective. She had been passed over several times, in spite of earning high scores on her tests. The excuse had always been seniority, but since she started working there almost fifteen years ago, that excuse was becoming harder to justify.

  “Good morning Officer Higgins,” some of the men smirked while greeting her. When they talked among themselves, it was always first names or nick-names. They never called her by her first name, or her nick-name.

  They called her ‘Professor Higgins’ behind her back. She was constantly looking for ways to improve herself, so they named her after the character in ‘My Fair Lady,’ who transformed Eliza Doolittle.

  The hostile work environment, her abusive alcoholic father, and her cheating ex-husband, had turned her into a man-hater. The fact that she worked in a department that investigated scams and fraud, most of which were perpetrated by men, only hardened her attitude. Sometimes, when a woman scammed a man, she secretly cheered her on. “Way to go! The bastard probably had it coming.” Of course, she pretended neutrality as she investigated the case, but wasn’t at all sorry when a woman “got away with murder.”

  She heard laughter coming from the men at the front desk, then someone said, “This is just the case for Officer Higgins.” Soon after, Sgt. Michael Boyle escorted a man in to see her. He appeared uneasy, fidgeting with the cap he held in his hands. In spite of her opinion about men, this one didn’t arouse her hostility. He had a mild, kindly face. She introduced herself and invited him to sit in one of the two uncomfortable metal folding chairs facing her desk. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m not sure I should have even come, and from the reaction of the people at the front desk, I feel more than a little foolish being here.” “Pay no attention to them. That’s just their way. Besides, you’re already here. Something must have seemed important enough to bring you to the police.”

  “Well, actually, it was my wife who thought I should come. After thirty-eight years of marriage, I’ve come to appreciate her good judgement. She often sees things I’m not even aware of.”

  A man who pays attention to his wife. Elizabeth was beginning to like him.

  “I’m Hugh Beasley,” he continued. “I have an antique shop on Winkley Street. We restore antiques and do weaving, mostly to repair old fabrics. I’ve had this customer who’s been to my shop about four times now over the last three years. He first came to have me weave a tapestry that looks like it was an antique from the Middle Ages. He deliberately wanted it to look worn. I’ve done work like that before. Sometimes people like to pretend to have an ancient pedigree and hang fakes in their home to show off. His request was unusual because he wanted to have the tapestry be a portrait of a man and woman, and gave me photographs of what they should look like. One of the pictures was of him, the other I assumed was his wife. I thought that he was an eccentric who wanted to give his wife a unique gift. But it was so unusual that I wouldn’t even begin such a project, and risk that the customer wouldn’t come back to pay for it, unless I was paid in full. He didn’t care at all about the expense, and paid in advance without any objection. I asked him his name, but he didn’t want to give it to me. Since he’d already paid, he didn’t see the need. I explained that I wanted it for a record of his order, so that when he came back for it, whoever was here could find it for him. He then said his name was Neal Crawford, but I never asked for any identity. As long as I had my money, what did I care? He didn’t even want a receipt, just said he’d be back on the date I told him the order would be ready. When he came for the tapestry, he also wanted the photographs he’d left with me. I gave them back, but didn’t tell him that I’d made copies of them for my files. I like to have back-ups of everything.” He shifted his considerable weight in the undersized metal chair. “Well,” he went on, “I didn’t give him any more thought, but he came back again about eight months later with a somewhat different request. He had the tapestry with him, as well as a photograph of a different woman. This time he wanted only the woman’s face replaced. I was thinking, perhaps he had divorced or broken up with the woman in the tapestry. Again, he paid up front, and again asked for the photograph back when the tapestry was ready. I first told my wife about him when he came back for the third time with the same request. She thought it was strange, and only half kidding, asked if I thought he could be a serial killer, you know like Bluebeard, the rich man who killed seven of his wives.”

  “Yes, I know the Bluebeard story. Let’s hope he isn’t like that.”

  Hugh Beasley said he laughed when she said that.

  “When did you think she might be right?”

  “When he came back for the fourth time, just a few days ago, even I began to wonder what he was up to. That’s when my wife urged me to report this.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward, “It’s certainly odd behavior. It could just be his way of getting women to like him.”

  “I wouldn’t think he’d need much help in that department. He’s very good looking, even I noticed that.”

  “I’ll do a quick search on Neal Crawford and let you know if I find anything. I really appreciate your coming to the police. You never know when something actually is a problem. Thank your wife for being so vigilant. I’ll need a description from you and your contact information.”

  After Hugh Beasley left, Elizabeth found eleven Neal Crawfords who could possibly fit the profile. She spent the next several days checking them out. All proved to be dead-ends. The men in her department had been making fun of the whole story. “Probably just a rich eccentric who likes to play dress up with his girl friends,” was their verdict.

  Anything was possible; however, she was hoping Mrs. Beasley was right. She relished the possibility that she could make her fellow officers look like fools.

  Entering the antique shop, she saw Hugh behind the counter. “I didn’t find any Neal Crawfords, but it’s quite likely he was using an alias, since he went to such trouble to keep a low profile. If you’ll give me a picture of him, and the latest photograph he gave you, I’ll check it for fingerprints. I’d also like copies of the pictures of the other women. Are there any other details that you might have overlooked?”

  Starting to shake his head no, he stopped. “Wait, the time before this, he had the photograph in his wallet, the other times he had just handed them to me. When he took it out, a credit card slip from The King’s Grill fell out onto the counter. Just to make conversation, I mentioned that I’ve taken my wife there on special occasions. It’s a nice treat for her, you know,” he seemed pleased to tell Elizabeth that.

  Could it be possible that there were actually some nice men in the world? “Do you know the date?” was all she said.

  “I’ll get it from my file. So you think there might be something to my wife’s suspicions? She’ll be so pleased to hear how seriously you’re taking this.”

  “I’ll be in touch if I need any more information from you. Good-bye, Mr. Beasley.”

  “Please call me Hugh.”

  She smiled and walked out into the street. When Elizabeth got back to her office, she ran a fingerprint check. She found a match! His name was Nigel Craxford, and his crime was a one-off scam of a female pensioner. He had received a light sentence sixteen years ago, and had no further record.

  The picture on file was a younger version of the one she had of him. Although his prior conviction involved no violence, and had been a long time ago, she had a hunch that this was worth following up.


  She walked quickly through the crowded city streets, pushing against the blustery wind. Empty branches swayed wildly overhead. The trees waited for warmth before sending their delicate buds into the world. She didn’t have that luxury. Fortunately, she didn’t have too far to go.

  She looked forward to continuing her investigation at The King’s Grill, located in the Hotel Raphael. It was not the kind of place her work or her budget had enabled her to go to before. Elizabeth gave herself a few moments to enjoy the atmosphere of the famous restaurant before approaching the headwaiter. She admired the crystal chandeliers that hung from the tall ceiling. They sparkled brightly against the mellow wood paneling on the walls. Tall narrow windows, overlooking a landscaped courtyard, were framed by raw silk, cream colored draperies. The tables were set with fine china, gleaming silver and crystal glassware. Large flower arrangements were scattered around the room, adding fragrance as well as beauty.

  “So this is how the other one percent lives. I sure would like to figure out how they got here, and how I can join them.” Even a promotion to detective wouldn’t allow for this lifestyle. The contrast between this world and hers fueled her frustration.

  The headwaiter was cooperative. He recognized Nigel Craxford from the picture she showed him. He said he made it a point to remember regular customers, but Nigel was especially easy to remember because of his film-star looks. “I also wondered why a man as handsome as he is was usually with very plain or even unattractive women. Only one time did I see him with a pretty one.” He looked at the pictures Elizabeth showed him and, pointing to one, said, “I think that’s the pretty one, but I’m not entirely certain. She might have been staying at the hotel. Is he in some kind of trouble?”