Death Notice

by Todd Ritter

  “About five or six months out of the year. Usually spring and summer, leaving sometime in the fall.”

  “About the coffin,” Kat said, attempting to steer the conversation back to the original purpose of their visit. “When did you see it?”

  “A little after eight thirty.”

  That meant Troy was in the water at least an hour before they found him.

  “When you spoke with my deputy, you said it was a coffin. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t at first,” Caleb said. “It was pretty far away.”

  Kat joined him at the railing. She gazed across the lake to a pair of ducks swimming near the spot where the coffin was found. She could see what kind of birds they were but was too far away to make out any other details.

  “Then how could you tell?”

  “My first thought was that it was a piece of wood or a raft,” Caleb said. “Like maybe a boat had taken on water and someone might be floating with it. So I dug out my binoculars to get a better look. That’s when I knew. It looked so much like a coffin that in my mind it couldn’t have been anything else.”

  “Can you recall if there were any boats out on the lake before you saw it?”

  Caleb didn’t need to think about it. “None. Yours was the only one I saw all night.”

  “Was there anything else suspicious you might have seen? Any people walking around? Any vehicles?”

  “A car,” he said. “I didn’t see it, but I heard it go down the road, past the house.”

  “Why is that unusual?” Nick asked.

  “Because this is the last house on Squall Lane. Everything beyond here is woods.”

  Kat turned away from the water. “What time did the car pass by?”

  “A little after six thirty,” Caleb said. “That was the only time I heard it. So wherever it was going to or coming from, I missed it when it drove by again. I was probably in the basement working.”

  “But you told us you were semiretired.”

  Caleb Fisher held up the glass eyes he still carried. “It’s a different kind of work.”

  Kat and Nick followed him back indoors and down a set of stairs to the basement. When they reached the bottom step, Kat froze in her tracks.

  The basement had been converted into an animal’s worst nightmare. Dead animals were everywhere, stuffed and mounted in a variety of shapes and positions. Kat took in the deer heads burdened with imposing antlers, the raccoon affixed to a piece of wood, and the waterfowl frozen in midflight.

  The only area not covered by dead things housed a work space instead. Caleb moved toward it as he said, “Welcome to my workshop.”

  Nick, who covered his surprise much better than Kat, crossed the room to examine an elk head mounted onto the wall. “You do all this yourself?”

  “I did.” Caleb dropped the glass eyes into a drawer full of them. “I know taxidermy is a strange hobby, but it relaxes me.”

  “I’m impressed,” Nick said. “How do you go about doing it?”

  “I use molds mostly.”

  Mr. Fisher pointed to the far end of his work space, which contained a salmon-colored piece of foam in the shape of a deer’s head.

  “I slide the skin over the mold and work from there. Helps keep the shape.”

  “And all this time I thought taxidermists used sawdust.”

  Kat remained stone-faced, even though she knew the direction Nick was going with his questioning. They had two dead animals left at the crimes scenes, with no explanation as to why they were there. Now, they suddenly found themselves in taxidermy central, and Caleb Fisher had a lot of explaining to do.

  “Once upon a time, they did,” he said, turning away from the mold. “Taxidermists used whatever was available. Straw. Old rags. And sawdust. But that’s mostly only done now by purists.”

  “No matter what materials are used,” Kat said, “why stuff them in the first place?”

  “There are many different reasons for taxidermy.”

  “Such as?”

  “Most taxidermists consider it an art form. They pride themselves on creating a close facsimile of how animals look in the natural world.”

  Kat approached the raccoon display, which sat on an end table, like a lamp. The animal had been posed with one paw slightly raised, as if it was about to take a step. It looked so lifelike that Kat wouldn’t have been surprised to see it trot off the base and scurry away.

  “Is that why you do it?”

  “That’s part of it,” Caleb said. “But there’s also a bit of showing off involved. I hunt a lot, and I like to display the animals I’ve killed. It’s a way of preservation.”

  Preservation. The word sent shivers through Kat’s entire body. George Winnick had been preserved. Troy Gunzelman, too. What the Grim Reaper was doing to his victims was exactly like what Caleb Fisher did to his.

  As they left the basement, Kat thanked Caleb for his time while Nick gave the dogs a good-bye pet. Then it was out of the house and back to the car.

  “So,” Kat said once they were alone again, “should we consider Caleb Fisher our prime suspect now or later?”

  “We’ll do a background check. See if his story holds up. Also, since he said he spends only part of his time here, we should see if he was in town during the Winnick murder.”

  Kat agreed. If Caleb had been elsewhere in March, then he had nothing to worry about. If he had been in Perry Hollow, however, then he fully earned his place on the suspect list.

  “I still can’t believe that basement,” she said. “All those animals.”

  “I’m still thinking about its size. Lots of space. Lots of privacy.”

  “You noticed that, too?”

  “Of course.” Nick started the car, gunning the engine ever so slightly. “Caleb Fisher’s basement would be the perfect place to kill someone.”

  Back at the station, Lou van Sickle was exactly where Kat had last seen her—at her desk, on the phone. As Kat passed, Lou thrust a piece of paper at her. It was a message from Jeremy’s mother, reminding Kat that he was supposed to come to her house that night for a playdate with James.

  Kat thanked Lou for the memo, although she didn’t need it. James had reminded her that morning, bringing it up until she promised that his best friend could come over, despite all that was going on in the town. And since Amber Lefferts was too upset over Troy’s death to pull babysitting duty, that meant Kat had to be home to make sure James got his wish. After being forced to neglect him the previous night, she owed it to him.

  Next up was Carl, who intercepted Kat and Nick in the hallway.

  “I tracked down Lucas Hatcher’s mother,” he said.

  “Does he have an alibi?”

  Carl shook his head. “She said she has no idea where he was last night. Her best guess is the street fair.”

  “What about Lucas himself?”

  “I couldn’t find him,” Carl said. “I went to the cemetery, but he wasn’t there.”

  Kat made a mental note to track down Lucas herself the next free moment she got. But when she turned into her office and saw Tony Vasquez and Rudy Taylor inside, she knew that would be a while.

  “I traced the fax number from the latest death notice,” Tony said. “Wanna guess who it’s registered to?”

  Kat and Nick responded in unison. “Meg Parrier.”

  “Yup. The mailing address was again a post office box in Philadelphia, only a different one than the last time. The number was activated three days ago and paid for with a money order from the same convenience store. It was used only once, to send the death notice to the Gazette.”

  Behind Tony, Rudy stood next to Kat’s desk, which once again boasted a portable fax machine. Sitting beside it was a handheld ultraviolet light.

  “Is that the new fax machine or the old one?” Nick asked.

  “It’s the one found this morning,” Rudy said. “And there’s something you should see.”

  He flipped the fax machine on its back. “Turn out the lights.
”

  Kat closed the blinds on the window and switched off the lights. A moment later, a beam of ultraviolet light broke through the darkness. About twelve inches in length, it cast a bluish glow over the desk.

  “I was doing a routine scan,” Rudy said. “And I found this.”

  He passed the light over the fax machine’s surface, moving it to where the serial number had been scratched off the bottom. Below it was a blank metallic strip. When the light hit it, a row of numbers appeared.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Kat asked.

  “If you think it’s the serial number, then yes,” Rudy said. “It’s not uncommon for expensive electronic equipment like this to have it in more than one place.”

  “So you can trace where it was purchased?”

  This time, Tony answered. “Yes. In fact, we already did.”

  Kat rushed to the wall and turned on the lights. “Where?”

  “It was bought in February at a Best Buy in King of Prussia.”

  Kat knew the town well. A wealthy suburb of Philadelphia, it had a fancy mall and every big-box store known to man. She took James there every August to buy him back-to-school clothes.

  “That’s about thirty minutes away,” she said. “Did the store confirm this?”

  “The manager did after checking inventory records.”

  Her head spinning with all this new information, Kat took a seat behind her desk. Nick remained standing.

  “We should request the security footage,” he said. “See if this guy was caught on camera.”

  “I already did,” Tony told him. “And it’s too late. The store only keeps the footage a month before erasing it. It’s long gone.”

  “Just our luck,” Kat said. “Could the manager tell you anything else? What the guy looked like? What else he bought?”

  “He told us that it wasn’t a guy. It was a woman. But the cashier who rang her up couldn’t remember any physical details.”

  Kat straightened in her chair. A woman bought the fax machine. Could it have been the same mysterious Meg Parrier who registered the number? Kat wasn’t a gambler, but she’d wager a thousand bucks that it was. What she really wanted to know was Miss Parrier’s true identity and why she was buying equipment that was being used in murders.

  “Please tell me she used a credit card,” Nick said.

  Tony frowned. “She paid with cash. A lot of it.”

  “How much?”

  “The total bill was close to four thousand dollars.”

  Kat’s eyes widened at the amount. That was the equivalent of four mortgage payments. “One fax machine costs that much?”

  “Not quite. The bill was so much because the customer bought more than one.”

  “How many did she buy?”

  “Brace yourself,” Tony said. “She bought four of them.”

  TWENTY

  Henry feared the fax machine.

  He knew it was ridiculous to be afraid of an inanimate object. Yet he was terrified of it. And knowing he was being foolish didn’t diminish his fear. Twice, bad things had come out of it, signaling the deaths of two people. And he was afraid it was only a matter of time before a third bad thing came his way.

  Returning to his office after watching Kat’s press conference, he found it difficult to follow his usual routine. Not with the fax machine by his side. Not with the possibility it could deliver another bit of bad news.

  He tried to focus, attempting to ease his mind with one of his favorite operas. But it was useless. After an hour of nothing but jitters, he faced the fax machine. Its front panel contained a single green light—an unblinking eye, staring back at him.

  Gazing at the light, not blinking himself, Henry realized the machine was a physical representation of dread. It was the anticipation that unnerved him, not the machine itself. He would receive another death notice from the Grim Reaper. He was sure of it. What remained frustratingly vague was when it would arrive. And whose name it would contain.

  The fax machine suddenly hummed to life. The green light finally blinked—slowly, steadily. A signal something was about to be sent.

  Unlike the pulsing green light, Henry didn’t dare blink. He kept his eyes wide open as the fax machine purred. A soft click emanated from its depths. A sheet of paper being lifted into place. That was followed by a muffled whir as ink spilled across the page. Then, as swift as an arrow to the heart, the fresh fax slid facedown out of the machine.

  Henry reached for it, then hesitated. Hand hovering over the paper, he remembered how blithely he had grabbed the death notices for George Winnick and Troy Gunzelman. Both times, he hadn’t known he was reaching into a trap.

  Now he did.

  Now, every fax the machine spat out was a potential spider bite, sharp and venomous.

  Yet the caution made him feel foolish. Not everything he received was dangerous. It could be an innocent fax, most likely from Deana and the McNeil Funeral Home.

  He was right on one count. When Henry finally picked up the fax to read it, he saw it was from Deana, although not associated with the funeral home. It was a handwritten message thanking him for the previous night.

  Henry fell back into his chair, feeling relief and confusion. He was relieved that the fax wasn’t from the killer, but he was confused that Deana would thank him for such a miserable time. During their brief date, he had debated the grieving process before running away mid-kiss. Some great time he was. Deana Swan would be better off directing her affection toward someone else.

  He tore up the fax. As he scattered the pieces into the trash, he heard another member of the Swan family.

  “Hiding another secret? It seems you have a lot of them, Henry Goll.”

  Henry’s back stiffened. “Can I help you with something, Martin?”

  Martin Swan didn’t answer, instead saying, “That was one hell of a press conference. Chief Campbell looked like a deer caught in headlights. But it was nice of her to give you a shout-out like that. Almost as nice as you helping the police all this time without telling me.”

  He stepped into the tight office, forcing Henry to back up against his desk to make room for him. It also kept him in his chair, an obvious tactical move on Martin’s part. For once, Martin Swan could be taller than Henry.

  “It was police business. I wasn’t allowed to tell you.”

  “Just how much do you know about these murders?”

  “Not much at all,” Henry said. “I got a death notice. I gave it to the police. When I got another one, I did the same thing.”

  He decided not to mention all the other bits and pieces he knew, including the fax machines left at his door.

  The reporter stared at the palm of his left hand, tracing its creases with the index finger of his right. His gaze was so intent that at first Henry thought Martin had blocked him out entirely. But when he spoke again, it was clear that was far from the case.

  “You could have told me off the record. I thought we were friends, Henry. I mean, you did go on a date with my sister.”

  “It was hardly a date,” Henry said, a little too defensively.

  “She told me you kissed her.”

  Actually, Deana had kissed him. But Henry saw no point in arguing that with Martin.

  “Is that a problem?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. Deana really likes you. And that’s understandable. You’re smart, athletic, handsome.”

  He drew out the word until it was almost a hiss. The sound of it made Henry flinch. Martin noticed and smiled.

  “If you don’t want me to date your sister, just say so,” Henry said, unable to tamp down the irritation rising in his voice.

  “You can date her,” Martin said. “I wish you both all the happiness in the world. But Deana’s been through a lot. I don’t want to see her get hurt. So you’d better be honest with her.”

  “About what?”

  Martin continued to fidget, this time rubbing the skin at the bumps of his knuckles.

  “Do you eve
r miss being a reporter?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “That’s surprising. I did a little research. Looked up some of your old investigative pieces. You were good, Henry. Amazing, actually. You would have done great work writing about these murders.”

  “I’m an obituary writer. Not a reporter.”

  “But if you decided to go back to reporting, this would be the perfect time to do it,” Martin said. “Especially since you know more about these murders than you’re letting on.”

  Henry at last understood why Martin had invaded his office. As the reporter covering the murders, he was naturally jealous of anyone who had more information than he did. Henry had been the same way when he was a reporter. The fear of being scooped, even by an obituary writer, was a powerful motivator.

  “I’m helping them as much as I can,” Henry said, adding, “Which isn’t much.”

  “Do you know if the police have any suspects?”

  Henry did, but he wasn’t about to mention Lucas Hatcher. The last thing Chief Campbell needed was Martin tipping off her primary suspect.

  “I have no idea.”

  “When you get an idea, tell me.”

  Martin moved out of the office, giving Henry more breathing room. But he didn’t leave. Not by any means.

  “For that matter,” he said through the open doorway, “tell me if you hear anything valuable. It’s really in your best interests if you do.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I might have to tell Deana about your wife,” he replied. “I think she’d be interested to know that you killed her.”

  Pleased with himself, Martin walked away. Henry stayed motionless, listening to the reporter’s fading footsteps in the stairwell. When they vanished completely, he collapsed back into his chair.

  Martin Swan knew the truth. Soon Deana would, too. And then everyone would.

  His secret would be out.

  Too rattled to stay at work and too reluctant to go home, Henry took to the streets. He walked quickly, trying to shake away his problems. That didn’t happen. Instead, his mind was crammed with thoughts battling for prominence. Martin’s sly threat and Troy Gunzelman’s death jostled with thoughts of Gia and Henry’s intense attraction to Deana.