Roses from My Killer

by Linsey Lanier

  The owner might be cleaning and couldn’t hear. Though she didn’t hear a vacuum.

  For a moment she stared at an empty rocking chair on the porch, then turned to make her way around to the back. The deck ran all the way around to the ocean side of the house, where a long strip of beach and the choppy water bordered the property.

  Cindy knocked on one of the sliding doors and waited again. Still no answer.

  She put her hands to the glass and tried to peer inside. All she could see was a blue carpet and a neatly-made bed. Like most of the homes in the area, this one had a reverse floor plan with the bedrooms on the main floor and the living room and kitchen above. Vacationers preferred the maximized view.

  The renter must be on the top floor.

  She found another stair to the second deck and made her way up. She had to be right. The music was louder here. She could make it out now.

  “Red Roses for a Blue Lady.”

  That song was ancient. She only knew it because her mother liked it. The renter must be an old guy.

  A deaf old guy.

  She made her way to a wide set of sliding glass doors. The blinds were drawn. That was unusual. The view was what you paid for.

  She knocked, waited, and once again got no answer. Feeling frustrated she tried the handle.

  The door slid open easily.

  “Sir? Ma’am?” she called out as loudly as she could.

  No one answered.

  She stepped onto the light-colored hardwood floor and looked around at a large open living room done in ocean pastels. Multi-colored light flickered in time to speakers in the corner, shooting strange shapes on the walls of the dimly lit space. The music was deafening, but it was the strange odor that caught Cindy’s attention.

  “Sir? Ma’am?” she shouted again as she came around an armchair and switched on a light.

  And then she stopped in her tracks.

  The foul air in her nose, she stared down at the body of a woman. A young woman. She had to be about her own age. She’d been spread out naked over a soft-hued throw rug, as if she were sunbathing on the beach outside. Her long blond hair had been arranged over her head to form a halo-like shape. Purple roses had been strewn around her like some sort of homage.

  Her eyes were closed and her mouth was tight, as if she were in pain. No wonder. Her whole body was covered with bloody, gaping wounds.

  Cindy began to shiver. And then her gaze rose to the wall, and she saw the horrifying words written in the woman’s blood.

  Her head began to spin. Her knees turned to jelly. Suddenly she was overcome with the urge to vomit. Slapping a hand over her mouth she bent over.

  Chapter Three

  No, she told herself sternly. No, Officer Cindy Smith. You are not going to hurl. That is not part of your job description.

  Cindy pulled herself upright, found a handkerchief in her pocket, and put it over her nose and mouth. She breathed into it until her head cleared.

  Then she found the source of the music. An mp3 player was connected to the pair of dancing fountain speakers that was casting the colorful lights on the wall. The song was on a loop, making it play over and over—the noise the neighbor had complained about.

  She found the off button and used the end of her jacket to press it.

  The whole place went still.

  Her ears were ringing, whether with relief or shock, she couldn’t tell. Then a thought struck her.

  Was the killer still here?

  She had to secure the building, but procedure said she should get backup, and she knew she’d better follow it.

  She reached for her radio and spoke softly into it. “Requesting assistance.”

  She rattled off the address. Then she took out her service weapon and headed across the floor and into the hall.

  She checked all the rooms on the upper floor, on the main, and in the lower level. What she found there made her want to gag again, but she managed to make her way back upstairs before calling her boss.

  “Officer Smith?” His voice sounded raspy and she knew he was annoyed.

  “Yessir.”

  “And why in blue ball blazes are you calling me on a Saturday night? I was just about to go out.”

  Sergeant James Ballard was a short skinny guy with a thin neck and a protruding Adam’s apple. He wore his dirty blond hair combed straight back and held in place with a lot of gel. He was two years younger than her and only had a certificate in criminal justice, but they’d put him in charge after Sergeant Harrison retired. Everyone knew it had been the mayor, Ballard’s uncle, who’d got him the job, but that was little comfort. After he reviewed her file, Cindy swore Ballard had made it his life’s mission to make her quit the force.

  She stepped out onto the deck for fresh air. It was almost dark and the wind was getting chilly. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Follow procedure, officer. Didn’t you learn that in your training at the Parker Agency?”

  “I followed procedure, sir. Back up hasn’t arrived yet. Besides this is different. This is an oh-one. A homicide.”

  “Smith, can’t you—did you say homicide, Officer?”

  “Yessir, I did.”

  “And what makes you so sure of that, Smith?”

  Glancing back through the sliding door, she described what she’d found in the living room.

  “Wait. Wait just a diggity-dog minute. Now say all that again. Slowly this time.”

  He hadn’t been listening. Cindy summoned up the remainder of her patience and repeated what she’d just told him in as calm a voice as she could.

  There was a long pause. “Are you trying to pull one over on me, Smith?”

  “No, sir. I—”

  “Are you trying to one up me? Because if you are, so help me—”

  “I wish I were, Sergeant.” Now he was making her mad. “Maybe you’d like to come over here and take a look yourself? Or if you prefer, I can send you a photo.”

  A muffled grumble came through the phone. “Okay. Stay calm. We can handle this.”

  She frowned into the phone. Was he talking to her or himself?

  “Oh, good grief, Smith. What in the frigging Pho are we going to do about this?”

  She inhaled and straightened her shoulders. “I think we should process the scene as best we can.”

  “I’m not talking about that. What are we going to do with the press? We can’t have a murder. Dare County doesn’t have murders, let alone—did you say a serial killer?”

  “Yes, I think this looks like the work of one.”

  “Dare County doesn’t have serial killers.” He sounded as if he blamed her for letting it happen.

  “Yessir. Nonetheless, I think we should call the coroner.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Wait. Wait just a doggone minute. You used to work for the Parker Agency, didn’t you?”

  Didn’t he mention that a minute ago? He razzed her about it all the time because she hadn’t finished training. “Yes, I did.”

  “Aren’t they doing consulting work now? And didn’t they catch a serial killer just a few months ago.”

  “Yes, they are and they did.” Cindy had heard it on the news, though she’d tried not to pay attention. Miranda Steele was making a real name for herself.

  “Then they can help us.”

  Cindy felt her stomach quiver. “Help us?”

  “They can handle this investigation. Plus they can take the heat from the press. Give them a call.”

  Now he was going too far. “Excuse me?”

  “Call them. You’ve got the number, don’t you?”

  Actually, she still had Detective Judd’s personal number in her phone. He could probably get her in touch with Mr. Parker. “I’ve got something, but—”

  “Good. And when you’re done with that, you can notify next of kin.”

  She blinked in shock. “I don’t even know who she is yet, sir.”

  “I’ll get a detective out there t
o take fingerprints and so forth. In the meantime, you make that call.” He hung up.

  Cindy scowled down at her phone, her eyes tearing up with anger.

  The last thing in the world she wanted was to call the Parker Agency. And if she could actually get them to come here? What was she going to do then? She couldn’t face Wade Parker after quitting his specialized training. And the thought of seeing Steele again made her feel sick. For a brief moment she thought about walking out of the house, packing her things, and leaving this place for good.

  But she couldn’t leave that poor woman lying in that living room like this. She couldn’t let her killer go free. Ballard was right. Parker and Steele could find whoever did this better than anyone in the county.

  She took a moment to settle her feelings, then she found Judd’s number and made the call.

  Chapter Four

  Miranda Steele sat on the ice blue sofa in the elegant living room of the Chatham estate squeezed in between her two pregnant friends, balancing a piece of chocolate-and-caramel cake on a small paper plate in her lap.

  Across from her were Colby and Oliver Chatham, dressed in their usual tan-and-gold sophisticated attire. To their side, Shelby and Iris Van Aarle, the golf pro and cosmetics executive, were nestled into cream-colored tufted armchairs.

  Parker stood behind her alongside Estavez, both of them in suits. Becker stood behind Fanuzzi, his thick dark hair curling around his ears. He had on a dark green sweater and a nice pair of slacks. The dressiest Miranda had seen him since their days in training.

  The chatter was low and festive, and all eyes were fixed on the dark-haired girl in the black sweater with the multi-color sparkles surrounded by balloons.

  Miranda’s daughter.

  Perched in a chair at the edge of the gift-strewn coffee table, Mackenzie Chatham smiled at her guests as she reached for the small silver package—the one from Miranda.

  Tomorrow was her birthday. Still concerned about her daughter’s behavior, Colby had decided to have a get together with all her adult friends instead of inviting a houseful of teens. After some begging, she’d made an exception for Mackenzie’s two closest peers.

  Next to Miranda, Fanuzzi waved a hand in the air. “Not that one, honey. Open mine next.”

  Miranda winced. Fanuzzi wanted the girl to save her gift for last, but she wasn’t sure that was such a good idea.

  The coffee table was already cluttered with a haul of teenage-appropriate goodies.

  There were light-up letters that spelled out her name from her best friend Wendy, who sat on the arm of her chair. A set of Zumba DVDs from Rachel, Mackenzie’s new friend, who occupied a nearby ottoman. A makeup kit from Iris Rose Cosmetics, the company owned by Wendy’s mother, complete with rainbow eye shadow and unicorn handled brushes. Next to the kit was a new cell phone with all the accessories, such as designer earbuds and the indispensable selfie stick. And clothes. Lots of clothes.

  Mackenzie opened the gift. Inside was a box containing a round white shape with a gray mesh cover. She frowned.

  “It’s a waterproof speaker—to listen to tunes in the shower,” Fanuzzi explained.

  The girl broke into a smile that seemed genuine. “Cool. Thank you, Mrs. Becker.”

  “You’re very welcome, sweetie.”

  “Now can I open this one?”

  Fanuzzi glanced at Miranda. There wasn’t much choice. It was the last package. But she was sure her gift was going to be anticlimactic.

  For two weeks she’d agonized over what to get her daughter for her fifteenth birthday. Finally Fanuzzi had dragged her to the mall and they’d spent four hours looking for the perfect gift. Miranda’s current relationship with her daughter wouldn’t win her any mother-of-the-year awards, and she desperately wanted to please her. To assure her she cared about her, to make her feel whole, to make the pain and anxiety she saw in her so often lately disappear. But Miranda knew no mere birthday gift could do that.

  Not if the girl knew the truth about her father.

  Holding her breath she watched her daintily tear open the shiny paper. Inside was a jewelry box. Mackenzie opened it and stared down at a silver heart-shaped necklace.

  “It’s—beautiful.”

  Miranda let out a breath. She’d been half expecting her to say it sucked. “It’s got a flash drive in it.”

  “Really?”

  Mackenzie held up the heart to a chorus of oohs from the onlookers. Then she pressed a tiny latch on the side, and the USB connector popped out.

  “Seriously?” said Wendy, her brown eyes wide.

  “No way,” cooed Rachel, sounding a tad envious.

  “You can wear it to school and store all your documents around your neck.” Miranda let out a nervous laugh.

  Was it too obvious she wanted Mackenzie to think of her while she was in class? It had been Fanuzzi’s idea, but her friend was certain the girl would like it.

  And she seemed to.

  Mackenzie’s blue eyes sparkled with appreciation. “That’s so cool. I can really use this. Thank you, Mother.”

  And she hopped up and gave Miranda an unexpected hug.

  “I’m so glad you like it.”

  “I do. I really do.” And for just a moment their eyes connected.

  Miranda saw something in her daughter’s expression that she couldn’t quite identify. Longing? Expectation? Acceptance? Maybe she was reading her own hopes into it.

  Then Mackenzie broke away and turned to her friends. “Hey, let’s go try some of this stuff out. Is that okay, Mom?” she said to Colby.

  “Of course. Just don’t get too loud.”

  “We won’t.”

  Wendy and Rachel got to their feet. Mackenzie put the necklace back in the box. The girls gathered the gifts in their arms, and they all headed through the archway toward the staircase, taking Miranda’s own heart with them. Well, she didn’t expect to hang out with her daughter the whole time. What fifteen-year-old did that?

  Reverting to adult conversation, Iris turned to Coco. “I understand you and Antonio are writing songs together?”

  Coco smiled modestly. “Yes, he’s very talented.”

  Behind her, Estavez took her hand. “She’s the talented one,” he said in his exotic Hispanic accent.

  “He came up with the idea of recording them and selling them online.”

  “It was a natural progression,” he said. “Your voice is too lovely not to be heard.”

  “I didn’t know you were doing that. I’ll have to check out your songs.” Colby got to her feet. “There’s more food in the dining room, if anybody’s still hungry. Although I must say this cake is to-die-for, Joan. You have to give me the recipe.”

  Fanuzzi winked at her. “Trade secret.”

  “Oh, but we’re friends. Surely you can tell me.”

  “I’ll think about—”

  Beside her, suddenly Fanuzzi stiffened. She shoved her plate into Miranda’s hand and shot to her feet.

  “Excuse me,” she mumbled and hurried toward an archway that led to a guest bathroom down the hall.

  “Is she all right?” said Colby.

  “Joanie!” Becker cried and rushed after her.

  Fanuzzi’s voice rang out from the hall. “Leave me alone. It’s your fault I’m like this.”

  Miranda could hear the tears in her voice. She shot Parker a look over her shoulder. She could tell he was concerned for their friends.

  Becker returned to the group looking embarrassed. “She’s just going through a thing.” He took Fanuzzi’s plate from Miranda and hurried off to the kitchen.

  Coco, who was even more pregnant than Fanuzzi got to her feet. “I’ll go check on her.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Miranda followed her down the hall.

  As soon as she heard the retching sounds, she regretted her decision.

  “What do we do now?” Miranda didn’t want to get her head bitten off.

  “I feel so guilty,” Coco whispered to her. “She’s had horr
ible nausea while I never felt better.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Miranda looked down at Coco’s belly. Coco had on a floral green maternity dress that really brought out the color of her blue eyes, but the waistline was pretty big. She and Fanuzzi were both showing now, but it was obvious Coco was a month farther along. Strange how motherhood could be so different for different people.

  Unlike most women, Miranda remembered Mackenzie’s birth, but she barely recalled anything about her pregnancy. She’d been in a haze most of the time, afraid Leon might kill her for what had happened.

  The sound of rushing water came through the door and after a moment Fanuzzi opened it.

  She looked pale, and her dark Italian eyes were bloodshot. The teal blue empire waist dress she had on was a little wrinkled and the dark hair she’d let go back to her natural shade was mussed.

  She swiped a hand under an eye. “I—I don’t think I can look at another piece of chocolate—ever,” she said in her Brooklyn accent. “What am I going to do, Murray?”

  She put her head on Miranda’s shoulder and sobbed.

  Miranda didn’t know what to think. This was the woman who used to boss burly men around on the road crew they once worked on together. They’d gone out bar hopping a couple of times.

  At a loss, she patted her back. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “No, it isn’t. If I can’t even look at chocolate, how am I going to work?”

  After leaving the road crew, Fanuzzi had started her own catering business and her culinary creations had become the talk of the town. Becker did well at the Agency, but Miranda knew her family depended on her income to make ends meet. She already had three kids from her first marriage.

  “What am I going to do?” Fanuzzi bawled.

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “I can help,” Coco offered.

  Fanuzzi dismissed her with a wave. “You’ve got your own life to live. You’ve got your recording.”

  “We can trade. Antonio’s been working long hours on a case lately. You can come over and help me upload files while I make your desserts.”