Murder at Midnight

by Kathi Daley

  Dad had called and asked me to stop by the house on my way home, which was where I was headed now. Both he and Jason were home from the hospital and doing well. It had been a really hectic couple of weeks, but it seemed things were falling into more of a regular pattern.

  “Dad here?” I asked my mom after letting myself in the front door.

  “In his office. He’s expecting you.”

  I headed down the hall, knocked once, and then entered the room after Dad told me to come in. He got up from his chair, came around his desk, kissed me on the cheek, and held the chair for me until I sat down. All the extra attention was beginning to make me nervous.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” Dad said as he sat back down in his chair behind the desk. “In fact, things are better than they’ve been in a long time.”

  “You’re looking better,” I said.

  “The leg hurts at times, but I’m on the mend, and I’m sure I’ll be back to my old self soon. I asked you here today to discuss a couple of things with you.”

  And back to nervous. “Okay,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “First, I want to thank you for saving my life.”

  I started to say it was nothing, but Dad didn’t give me the chance.

  “Not only did you keep your head in a crisis but what you did to escape the warehouse was truly amazing. I can honestly say that all five of your brothers working together couldn’t have done what you did that day.”

  Uh-oh. Here came the tears.

  “Working with you has finally made me see what you’ve been telling me all along. You’re an exceptional young woman with a lot to offer. The HPD would be lucky to have you. However,” Dad glanced at my arm, which was still wrapped in a cast, “I’m afraid you’ll miss the next academy class. I know how much you were looking forward to it and feel bad you’re going to miss your shot because of me. But I have a proposal I hope you’ll consider.”

  “A proposal?”

  “Working with you brought home how bored I’ve been since I retired. I love your mother and we agreed I’d retire while I was young enough to travel, but I feel like I still have a lot to give, and we don’t share many common activities. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’ve talked it over with your mother and come to a decision.”

  “You’re going back to work?”

  “Yes and no. I’m going to open a detective agency.”

  Wow. I hadn’t seen that coming.

  “The skill set I’ve acquired can be extrapolated. I have my pension, so I don’t need to make a lot of money. If I have my own business I can work on the cases that interest me and turn down those that don’t. And I can make my own hours and plan time off to travel if Mom gets the bug.”

  “That’s wonderful, Dad. I’m so happy for you. It sounds perfect.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? The only thing that would make it better would be if I had a partner I know I can trust and depend on. Someone like you.”

  I was so stunned I couldn’t speak.

  “I know your dream is to be a cop like your brothers. And if that works out at some point, I’d let you out of your obligation. But in the meantime, would you be my partner?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” I hopped up out of my chair. “I’d love to work with you. More than anything else in the world.”

  Later that evening I looked back on the past few weeks and realized Lani Pope was about to begin a new chapter in her life.

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  Monday, December 11

  “Fifty-three years ago, Francine Kettleman—Frannie K for short—lived at the Turtle Cove Resort while her husband, Tom, was away in Vietnam. Frannie, who was just nineteen when she arrived on Gull Island, lived there from April 1963 to August 1964. During her stay, Frannie received love letters from a man named Paul, who was also stationed in Vietnam. Years later, the letters, which Frannie had tied together with a ribbon, placed in a metal box, and hidden in the wall of the cabin where she was living, were found by the contractor in charge of the remodel of the resort. After a cursory investigation, we know that on August 14, 1964, Frannie was found dead in a cemetery fifty miles from here. It’s believed by most that Frannie was the fourth victim of the Silk Stocking Strangler, a mass murderer who was never caught or identified. The Strangler was credited with killing thirteen women over a ten-month period from 1964 to 1965. All the victims were strangled with a pair of women’s silk stockings, and all were found in cemeteries along the East Coast from Florida to Massachusetts.”

  I paused to look around the room at the people who had gathered to hear my proposal. I could see this case had everyone’s attention. Love, intrigue, and tragedy all wrapped up in one package. We’d stumbled upon the letters Frannie had left behind before Thanksgiving, so we were familiar with the specifics, but in the interest of tradition, it was the task of the submitting author, who in this case is me, Jillian Hanford, to officially present the case to the other members of the Mystery Mastermind Group.

  “Are you asking us to track down a serial killer?” Alex Cole, a fun and flirty millennial who made his first million writing science fiction when he was just twenty-two, asked.

  I turned to answer him. “Not at all. If Frannie was indeed killed by the Strangler, finding her killer is beyond our ability to research.”

  “Is there any doubt Frannie was a victim of this madman?” Brit Baxter, a blond-haired pixie and aspiring writer of chick lit, asked.

  “While I haven’t yet come up with any hard evidence that would indicate Frannie wasn’t the fourth victim of the Silk Stocking Strangler, I do have reason to question that assumption. I recently met with Ned Colton, who was the deputy in charge on Gull Island when Frannie was murdered. Given the fact that her body was found fifty miles away, and the FBI was already investigating the Silk Stocking Strangler, Ned wasn’t asked to take an active part in this investigation. Ned shared with me that he took the liberty of looking in to things on his own. He admitted that, on the surface, it appeared Frannie had been murdered by the Strangler, but there were some anomalies he found interesting.”

  “Anomalies?” Victoria Vance, a romance author who lives the life she writes about in her steamy novels and my best friend, asked.

  “The Silk Stocking Strangler had a signature of sorts. He always abducted his women at night, he used silk hosiery to strangle his victims, and he always chose women who were blond, blue-eyed, and between the ages of twenty and twenty-four. He always left the bodies of his victims in a graveyard and he always posed them lying on their backs with their arms across their chest. He also always left a single red rose lying across the victim’s neck.”

  “And does that match what happened to Frannie?” Victoria asked.

  “It does. To the letter.”

  “So why does this Deputy Colton think she may not have been a victim of the Strangler?”

  “Little things, really. For one thing, the strangler was strong. The women he strangled died quickly, and it appeared he came up on them from behind because none of them had any defensive wounds. Frannie, however, appeared to have fought back. She had a bump on her head and defensive wounds on her hands and arms. While the autopsy didn’t detail any discrepancies between Frannie and the other women, it was Ned’s opinion she died much more slowly than the others, which could indicate the person who strangled her wasn’t as strong or as skilled as the real Strangler.”

  “Did Deputy Colton consider the idea that Frannie was stronger than the other victims and therefore better able to fight back? That could have led the Strangler to be less effective in his attack.” Jackson Jones—Jack for short—a dark-haired, blue-eyed, never-married nationally acclaimed author of hard-core mysteries and thrillers and my current love interest, asked.

  “Yes, he did,” I answered. “That was what the FBI believed. The difference in the killings could even be explained by someth
ing as simple as the Strangler being under the weather and therefore off his game. Ned told me that based on the data provided in the report it seemed as if Frannie may even have been knocked out and then strangled.”

  “So she fought back, either fell and hit her head, or her killer hit her in the head, causing her to pass out before being strangled,” George Baxter, a writer of traditional whodunit mysteries, summarized. “That seems like a pretty big discrepancy to me.”

  “Ned and I agree. We both feel this case should have been given more attention than it was by the individuals investigating the Strangler.”

  “What else did the deputy have?” Jack asked.

  “Ned also told me the roses the Strangler left were a long-stemmed, thornless variety. The rose left with Frannie’s body was long stemmed and red like the others but not thornless.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t find a thornless rose when he killed Frannie,” Brit speculated.

  “No,” Clara Kline, a self-proclaimed psychic who writes fantasy and paranormal mysteries, countered. “Serial killers are very methodical. They have a ritual that’s very important to them that must be adhered to exactly if they’re to obtain the emotional satisfaction or psychological relief normally brought to them by the kill. A serial killer wouldn’t simply make a substitution. I think that’s is an important clue.”

  “I agree with Clara, but it seems the FBI should have come to the same conclusion,” Jack stated. “Why didn’t they suspect a copycat?”

  “Because of the tattoo,” I said. “The Strangler carved a pentagram on the back of the right shoulder of every woman. The FBI kept that piece of information out of the press, so no one other than law enforcement knew about it. Frannie had the mark on her shoulder, the same as every other woman. What I’m asking you to do is help me determine whether Frannie K. was the fourth victim of the Silk Stocking Strangler or if she was killed by someone else who used the hype created by the serial killer to try to get away with murder. I know the anomalies are small, but according to Deputy Colton, the FBI determined Frannie was a victim of the Strangler and never considered any other suspects.”

  “Do we have other suspects?” George asked.

  “Not really,” I admitted. “At least not yet.”

  “Were you ever able to identify the man who wrote the letters?” George asked.

  “I’ve been unable to definitively identify him, but Deputy Savage managed to obtain the original FBI report. While the Paul in the letters never gave his last name, the FBI determined Frannie’s husband Tom had a brother named Paul. While we don’t know this for certain, we’re assuming the writer of the letters was Frannie’s brother-in-law. We haven’t been able to track down Paul Kettleman to verify it.”

  “And Tom?” George asked.

  “We’ve been able to confirm that in August 1964 Tom was sent back to the States after suffering a head injury. Five days after he arrived in South Carolina, Frannie was dead. Tom died eleven months after Frannie was murdered as a result of complications from the head injury he received in Vietnam.”

  “So if the Strangler didn’t kill Frannie her husband must have done it,” Brit surmised.

  “Maybe. Based on the letters Paul sent, he was concerned for Frannie’s safety when Tom came home, although it may be hard to prove he killed her. We certainly won’t be able to get a confession from him. Still, we do have something to work with. Ned has expressed an interest in working with us should we decide to pursue the case. He has the file he created at the time of the murder, which he feels should be reexamined. Additionally, I’ve gathered the names of several people who still live on the island who knew Frannie when she lived here. I thought we’d speak to them. If we can get a better idea of exactly what was going on in Frannie’s life at the time she was killed, other suspects may begin to emerge. Jack and I have already decided to take a stab at figuring this out. Is anyone else in?”

  The room fell quiet. I decided to give everyone a minute to process what I’d shared with them. It was a lot to take in and a lot of years had passed. This wasn’t going to be an easy case to tackle.

  “Mystery solved, Mystery solved, ” Blackbeard, my brother Garrett’s parrot, broke the silence.

  I laughed. “It looks like Blackbeard’s in.” I looked at the large bird. “I guess I should have asked you if you had anything to add.” Blackbeard had been instrumental in solving mysteries in the past, although he most definitely hadn’t been living at the resort when Frannie did. I doubted he was even alive, but parrots could live eighty or more years and I had no idea how old he was, so I supposed it was possible. Garrett had told me that he’d found Blackbeard, or more accurately, Blackbeard had found him. Garrett had been near the beach when Blackbeard flew up and landed on his shoulder. They’d been friends ever since.

  “The solution to this mystery isn’t going to be that easy,” Brit joined in. “You all know I’m involved in the local production of A Christmas Carol , which runs from December 20 to December 22. We have an aggressive rehearsal schedule until then, so I’m not sure to what extent I can help, but I’m happy to help if I can. My specialty is really social media and I don’t think that will come into play in a fifty-year-old case, but if you need me to research anything, just holler.”

  “Thanks,” I responded. “I appreciate that.”

  Alex spoke next. “As you know, I’m pretty busy trying to finish my book on Trey Alderman, but if you need something specific, just ask.”

  “I have some time,” George said. “I’m digging into my books, but I can do some research on the strangler. It does seem like an interesting case.”

  “Great; thanks.” I smiled.

  “You know I’m in,” Vikki said, jumped onto the bandwagon. “I’ve been captivated by Frannie’s story since you first showed me the letters. I think we can depend on help from Rick as well.” Vikki was referring to Deputy Rick Savage, the acting deputy in charge on the island and Vikki’s current love interest. “We’ve discussed the matter a few times and I can tell he’s intrigued.”

  “And I as well,” Clara voiced. “You can’t help but wonder what really happened to that poor woman. I’ve been meditating on the necklace you found with the letters and I think I’m close to establishing an emotional link with her spirit.”

  “Okay. Let’s decide on a date so whoever’s available can get back together. Jack and I have interviews set up for the next two days and then we’re working at the tree lot on Wednesday afternoon. How about Thursday or Friday?”

  “Friday evening works best for me because we don’t have rehearsal then,” Brit said.

  “I can do Friday,” Vikki seconded.

  Everyone else agreed, so we set Friday evening as six for our next meeting. I volunteered to make dinner. George requested lasagna and Clara wanted garlic bread, so it seemed we had our menu.

  “I think that went well,” Jack said as Clara headed upstairs and everyone else left for their cabins.

  “I feel really drawn to this case. It’s just so tragic. Whether Frannie was murdered by a serial killer or someone she knew and possibly loved, she was still just twenty years old. Twenty is much, much too young to have your life stolen from you.”

  Jack put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “We’ve got a solid starting place and, I feel, a very good chance of finding out what really happened to Frannie.”

  “You sound optimistic.”

  “You know me: Jack Optimistic Jackson.”

  I smiled. “I do rather love that about you. So, where should we start?”

  Jack removed his arm from around me and took a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Here are the interviews for the next two days. I’m between novels, but I do have a paper to run, so I thought I’d work in the morning and we could sleuth in the afternoons. We won’t have a lot of time on Wednesday; we’re supposed to be at the tree farm at four.”

  “What do we have tomorrow?”

  “I know you spoke to Ned Colton on the phone, but I tho
ught we should get a look at his file and maybe pick his brain a bit. I made an appointment to meet him at his home at one o’clock. I can pick you up at noon and we could grab a quick lunch first.”

  “That sounds good. Anyone else tomorrow?”

  “Edna Turner. As you know, she was the town librarian at the time Frannie was murdered. When we spoke on the phone she told me that Frannie was an avid reader who came in to the library often. Edna expressed what seemed to be genuine grief over Frannie’s death and indicated she was willing to help however she could. She seems to know a lot of people and I’m hoping she’ll give us some additional leads. We’re meeting with her at three o’clock. I thought we could go back to my place after that. I seem to remember you mentioning a willingness to help me decorate the place for the holiday.”

  “Sounds like fun. I think I may start decorating the resort tomorrow morning as well. As for tomorrow night, let’s do pizza. I’ve been craving a good pizza for days.”

  “It’s a date.” Jack leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

  “And what does Wednesday look like?”

  “I’ve made two appointments for the early afternoon. We’re seeing Sherry Pierce, who was a friend of Frannie when she lived on the island at noon, and Roland Carver, who was the mayor at the time of the murder, at two o’clock. After that we’ll need to head to the tree lot for our shift.”

  “I can’t wait to get started.”

  After Jack left I grabbed a sweater and went out onto the patio. It was a clear night and the stars in the sky looked like diamonds on a bed of black velvet. The nights had grown cooler as the days had grown shorter, but I still enjoyed spending a few minutes looking out over the vastness of the ocean before I went to bed.