Roses from My Killer

by Linsey Lanier

  “I’ll check in later for a status report. If anything pops in the meantime, you all have my cell number.”

  As everyone shuffled out of the room, Parker came over to her from the corner where he’d been watching the proceedings. “Excellent meeting. Your leadership skills are improving by leaps and bounds.”

  “Ha. Tell me that after I talk to Fry.”

  Parker raised a brow that told her not to let his brainy technician intimidate her.

  “Well, if you feel that way, how about doing some clerical work while I call him and Becker?”

  “Whatever you say—”

  She held up a hand. “I know. I’m in charge.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  While Parker scanned the crime scene photos and reports to send on to Fry and Becker, Miranda slipped into an empty room and closed the door to make her calls.

  Fry was as whiny as a spoiled toddler and prickly as a desert cactus. Then he demanded four times his pay for working on a Sunday. Miranda held her ground and told him it was in his job description to work an occasional weekend. She was about to threaten to put Parker on the phone when the crime scene photos came through.

  One look at Josie Yearwood’s mangled body, and Fry changed his tune. He said he’d get with Garwood and Deweese and arrange to have the samples sent to the office ASAP.

  One down, one to go, she thought as she dialed Becker’s number.

  The first thing she heard when he picked up the phone was the ear-piercing cry of a child.

  Then Becker’s Brooklyn accent came over the speaker. “I’m sorry, Callie. But it’s Charlie’s turn to pick the movie. Sorry about that, Steele,” Becker said to her once the noise died down.

  “It’s okay.” Miranda remembered watching movies with Fanuzzi and her kids and their big golden retriever before her friend hooked up with Becker. She felt guilty tearing him away from his family life.

  “What’s up?”

  “Parker and I got called away on a case when we were at the birthday party yesterday.”

  “Yes, Joanie told me about that.”

  “We’re in the Outer Banks in North Carolina.”

  “Oh, wow. Long trip.”

  “Yeah. It’s a pretty bad one. We think it’s a serial killer, though we don’t know about any other victims yet. Parker’s sending you some information.”

  “Okay.”

  She heard Becker’s phone beep.

  “There it is now.” He grew silent as he scrolled through the photos. “That is bad.” Miranda heard a shiver in his voice. “Who was she?”

  “Divorced boutique owner. Grew up in the area and returned a few years ago. From what we’ve learned so far, we think she was a compulsive dater. She went out with a lot of different guys.”

  “The popular type?”

  “Uh huh. We found several dating sites she was registered with on her laptop.”

  “Oh, here’s a photo of her when she was alive.” He let out a low whistle. “Doesn’t look like she’d have trouble finding dates. But you think she used a dating site?”

  “Yeah. We think whoever she went out with Friday night killed her.”

  “Oh gosh.”

  “That’s what we need you for. Parker looked through the sites briefly but couldn’t find any evidence of a hookup for Friday night. Work your magic and see if you can get us a name.” She gave him the contact number for Officer Doug Hill. “He wants to pick your brain.”

  “Sure. I’m flattered.” He sounded a little surprised. The guy had always underestimated himself. “I’ll get with him and we can run some scans of the laptop remotely.”

  “Thanks, Becker.”

  “No problem. We’ve got to get this creep before he kills again.”

  She knew she could count on Becker. “How’s Fanuzzi doing?”

  Miranda was surprised those words had come out of her mouth. She was usually laser focused and didn’t think about her friends when she was on a case. The sound of her best friend heaving in the Chatham’s guest bathroom must have left a lingering impression.

  “A little better,” Becker said. “She and Coco are in the kitchen working on a party she’s catering tomorrow. Oh, wait. Here she is. She wants to talk to you.”

  Miranda could see the image of her short, dark-haired frame standing in the hallway of their cozy little house, demanding the cell. Before Miranda could say she didn’t have time, Fanuzzi was on the phone.

  “I’m so sorry I was such a mess at Mackenzie’s party.”

  Was that all Fanuzzi wanted to say? “You couldn’t help it. Like you said, it’s Becker’s fault.” She laughed, but her friend didn’t laugh back.

  “Mackenzie wanted me to tell you thanks again for the gift.”

  “You think she knew you helped me pick it out?”

  “Probably. She’s a bright kid.”

  She was. “I wish she would have told me that. She could have texted or even called.”

  Fanuzzi was silent a long moment.

  “What?”

  “You know it could be because she just wants some space.”

  “You mean you think I’m—what? Smothering her or something? I hardly ever see her anymore.”

  “I know. That’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she can tell you want something from her. Maybe something she can’t give you.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. She’s stopped vaping. I don’t think she knows about her father.”

  Miranda had confessed her worries about that to Fanuzzi over a month ago. “So?”

  “So what do you want from her, Murray?”

  Miranda stared down at the phone. Pregnancy was making her friend even more blunt than usual. The words were hard to hear, but maybe she did want something from Mackenzie her daughter couldn’t give her. She hadn’t meant to put pressure on the girl.

  “I gotta go. Coco’s helping me with catering for the Brannigan’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. A lot of influential folks will be there. You remember June and Geoffrey Brannigan, don’t you?”

  Miranda frowned. “Who?”

  “They work with Mr. P all the time.”

  She must have met them at some point, but Miranda didn’t keep up with Parker’s society friends.

  “Coco’s a whiz in the kitchen. Who knew someone so beautiful could sing and cook?” She laughed. “Gotta run. Here’s Dave.”

  Feeling farther away from her daughter than ever, Miranda repeated what she needed Becker to work on and hung up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Before she and Parker left the police station, they met Wesson in the weapons cache and picked up their standard issues.

  Miranda had to smile when she saw they were Berettas. Three sleek black 22mm, .40 caliber pistols made by none other than Smith & Wesson. Ballard had even provided them with shoulder hostlers, which made the guns fit nicely under their jackets.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to use these,” Parker murmured as he tucked his under his fancy suit coat.

  Miranda leaned close to Wesson. “Try to keep Smith focused.”

  “Will do. Keep me posted.”

  “Of course.”

  And they headed out.

  As they drove back across the sound in the Nissan, Miranda took a moment to gaze at the sunlight gleaming off the water. Then she pulled out the list of nightspots Hill had provided.

  “Lot of places to visit,” she sighed, letting her frustration show.

  Parker was just as vexed. “It’s bad timing as well. The same staff may not be on duty.”

  He was right. It was too early in the day. But they couldn’t wait. “We’ll just have to dig up what we can.”

  “Agreed.”

  First stop was an old brewery on Queen Elizabeth Street, about a two-minute walk from Josie’s boutique. Since the temperature had climbed to sixty, they left their outer coats in the car and made their way up a brick sidewalk.

  The exte
rior of the place had an old-fashioned look with more red brick, green awnings and yet another white picket fence. Inside another set of rustic brick walls held chalkboards extolling a wide assortment of beers on tap. The place also featured a full menu, including an array of appetizers from hummus to nachos. She could smell hamburger grilling in the back.

  Miranda strolled up to the polished bar where a tall beefy guy with a handlebar mustache in a striped shirt and a bowtie stood. She half expected to hear an Irish accent—or maybe a barbershop tune—come out of his mouth.

  Instead he greeted her with a smile and the North Carolina brogue she was starting to get used to. “Welcome to the Brewery. My name’s Pete. What can I get for you? Our brown ale is some of the best in the southeast.”

  Miranda ignored the sales pitch. “Pete, my name is Miranda Steele and this is Wade Parker. We’re investigators from Atlanta and we’re wondering if a certain young woman frequented your place here.”

  His thick red brow rose with suspicion. “What young woman would that be?”

  Miranda pulled up the photo from the dating site and slid her phone across the counter. “This young woman.”

  Pete took the phone and studied it a moment. Then he slid it back. “That’s Josie Yearwood.”

  “You know her?”

  His brows furrowed. “Sure. She’s been on the news. Did you know she was killed last night in a house on the ocean front?”

  “That’s the case we’re investigating.”

  “Oh. Right.” Suddenly his ruddy face beamed with comprehension. “You two are the detectives from Atlanta, aren’t you? You’re here to find that killer.”

  “We hope to,” Parker said.

  The bartender shook his head. “Awful what happened to that girl.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “From what I saw on the news it was pretty brutal. We don’t have stuff like that happen around here.”

  Miranda cleared her throat. Enough chitchat. “Did you know Ms. Yearwood, Pete? Was she a regular customer here?”

  He took the phone and studied it another moment. “She looks familiar, but so does every single white female who comes into this place. I’ve seen a lot of them, and I’ve only been here a few months.”

  “We think she had a date in this area Friday night.”

  “Do you think the guy she was with killed her?”

  “We don’t know yet. We’re just following leads.”

  “I was working the bar Friday night. Blaire was one of our waiters.”

  He called over a thin young woman with a bright smile who had to be in her early twenties. Her hair in a ponytail, she was dressed in the same striped-shirt-and-bowtie outfit as the bartender.

  “How can I help you?” she grinned cheerily. “Would you like to see a menu? We’ve got a special on the Carolina Crab Cake. It’s scrumptious.”

  “No, thank you,” Miranda said.

  Before she could say any more, the bartender cut in. “They’re here about that awful murder on the news. These are the detectives from Atlanta.”

  Brown eyes wide, Blaire pressed a hand to her striped shirt. “Oh, wow. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s just terrible what happened to that young woman.”

  “Yes, it is.” Miranda nodded to the barkeep. “Pete here says you were working Friday?”

  “For a little bit.”

  “Did you see Ms. Yearwood here with anyone?” She held out the phone with Josie’s picture.

  Blaire nodded right away. “Yes, I know her. She was here a lot with different guys.”

  “Was she here Friday night?”

  She tapped her lips with her fingers for a moment. “I—can’t say I remember seeing her Friday. But I left early. I had a date myself.”

  “Who else was on duty Friday?”

  “Several of the staff were here. Most of them are off now. We don’t get much business on Sunday nights in the offseason.”

  Hmm. Miranda thought of how short-staffed she was. Time to put those leadership skills Parker was so big on to work. “Blaire, I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Could you call the members of the staff who were working Friday and ask if they saw Josie Yearwood?”

  “Sure. I’ll have to get their numbers from the manager.”

  “It’s an official police matter.”

  “Oh, yes. I understand. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you in any way he can.”

  Miranda handed the young woman her card. “If any of them saw Ms. Yearwood here on Friday, tell them to call me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “No problem. I do hope you find that horrible killer.”

  “So do we.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back out on the sidewalk, Parker gave Miranda a smile. “Good thinking to enlist the waitress’s aid.”

  “Yeah,” she smirked. “I was almost as smooth as you.”

  He raised a playful brow. “Am I smooth?”

  “Seriously?” she said, sounding like Wendy Van Aarle. “Anyway, we have too many other places to visit. And the police are busy.”

  “On the assignments you gave them.”

  “You don’t have to rub that in.”

  “I’m simply proud of you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” As they crossed the street and walked down a little farther past a row of shops with window panes and signs that reminded her of England, another idea came to Miranda. “Do you think Josie might have been nabbed after she left her date Friday night?”

  “It’s possible.” Parker’s tone had turned ominous.

  “The crime rate is low around here. And in such a small place, you’d think someone would notice if somebody were stalking her.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

  “Trying to find a way to rule it out, but I can’t right now.”

  “Which means we have another loose end.”

  “We have a whole basketful of those, don’t we?” she sighed as she reached the next stop on their list. It was a sandwich shop frequented by locals, according to Hill.

  Parker opened the door, and they stepped into an open area filled with wooden tables where a few families were enjoying a late lunch or early dinner.

  No one greeted them, so Miranda walked up to an area next to a deli counter and looked for a bell to ring. Before she could find it, a hefty woman came through a back door with a big smile on her face.

  “Welcome, y’all,” she drawled. “What can I git for you?”

  Miranda turned to Parker and whispered, “Your turn.”

  Parker nodded and flashed her his extremely smooth smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  The woman melted and would have told him anything he wanted, but after Parker explained why they were here, she insisted she hadn’t seen Josie Yearwood in her establishment Friday night.

  Back outside, Miranda studied the store’s façade as a balmy breeze played with her hair. “A sandwich shop is way too casual for Josie, anyway.”

  “Probably.”

  They had come out the front and were on the dock, facing the rippling waves of the bay and the fanciful sailboats moored along the piers, white masts against blue sky and water.

  “This is such a beautiful place,” she murmured.

  “It is,” Parker agreed.

  “Hard to imagine how something so gruesome could happen here.” She was echoing the sentiments of everyone they’d talked to.

  “Evidently the killer has no appreciation for that.”

  “Let’s get going.”

  They visited an ice cream parlor, a waterfront café, a southwestern grill.

  Everyone on each establishment’s staff was friendly and cooperative—you wouldn’t get far in a tourist town if you weren’t. Most everyone had seen Josie’s story on the news, thanks to Angela Tremblay. And most everyone remembered Josie Yearwood stopping by at one time or another with a date. But no one cou
ld tell them anything about seeing her Friday night.

  And then Blaire called from the brewery that had been their first stop. She’d spoken to everyone who’d been working the dining room Friday night.

  No one had served Josie Yearwood or her mystery man.

  The sun was going down when they reached one of the classier spots along the bay—appropriately called Bayside Manor. They entered through a white arch and a tall set of stairs to an expansive structure that reminded Miranda a bit of the Parker mansion.

  Inside the air was filled with a mouth-watering mixture of scents. Rack of lamb, ribeye, seared tuna. Peeking in through the lobby, Miranda could see the dining area was all white-table cloths and polished crystal bounded by symmetrically placed wooden columns. Soft music filled the air. Her spidey sense started to tingle.

  This was the type of place Josie Yearwood would go on a date.

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  The question was uttered in a soft Southern dialect almost as sophisticated as Parker’s. The speaker was a thin pale man who’d come up behind a polished oak podium placed in front of a rustic gray stone wall. He was wearing a dark suit and tie with a crisp white shirt that made him look more like an undertaker than a mâitre d’.

  “No reservation. My name is Miranda Steele and this is Wade Parker.” She went through the litany she’d spouted off a dozen times already, explaining who they were and what they were looking for.

  The man’s face turned a shade paler as he put a hand to his throat. “I saw that story on the news. It’s dreadful. Perfectly dreadful.”

  “Yes, it was. Do you know who was on duty Friday night?”

  His mouth went thin as he bent down behind the desk to retrieve a dark red binder. He opened it and turned a few pages.

  Miranda watched his long manicured fingers move over the lines. “Several staff members were here. Rayleen was in charge,” he said at last.

  She was about to ask if she could speak to this Rayleen when a full-throated Southern accent rang through the air. “Are you gossiping about me to the customers again, Cesare?”